The pros and cons of your daughter turning 14

CONS:

• She borrows my stuff. 
• She is old enough to mock me. While trying to parallel park the other day I was having some issues and she said, “Sooo, I take it parallel parking isn’t your thing?” (For the record, parallel parking is TOTALLY MY THING. I was having an off moment.)
• I can’t help her with her Math.
• She doesn’t go to bed at 7:00 anymore.
• You can’t assume that an inappropriate television moment goes over their head, and then you feel responsible to change the channel. Sometimes being a good example is a pain, like when I was watching “The Office” and they said the word “sex” and Drew freaked out and I had to explain, “Drew, Pam’s pregnant and you have to have sex to get pregnant.” He nodded his head and then a light went on in his brain, and he jerked it back up and said, “Did YOU do that??!!!!” Good times.
• She still gets a kick out of the Disney Channel. As I speak she is with Cory in the Family Room watching “Phineas & Ferb”. Nails on a chalkboard, people. Cory is laughing out loud. Is there any hope for my future? Tell you what, let’s not answer that right away.
• Reality sets in and the childhood dreams begin to fade. Case in point, a few months ago she said, “I used to think archaeology would be fun, but then I watched Indiana Jones and went to Social Studies and I changed my mind.” I know how she feels. When I was 5 I took ballet from my best friend’s mom who thought I was a “natural” and I thought I would grow up to be an amazing dancer. Then I found out I would have to work out 8 hours a day, eat salad every meal without dressing and take up smoking so THAT went out the window. 

PROS:

• Free babysitting.
• Lowered expectations. People don’t really expect you to look young and vibrant when you have a teenager. A while back I was visiting with family and as I went out to the car I observed my reflection in the car window and said, “Good grief, I have MOM HAIR.” Then my brother so helpfully replied, “Well, you ARE a mom!” In the future bro, you are supposed to say, “Well, I guess if ‘Mom Hair’ means you could totally smoke Cindy Crawford in a Sports Illustrated swimsuit photo shoot then I guess you’re right.” 
• She can clean toilets. The RIGHT way.
• The “right” way being that she’s doing it and not me.
• I’m not really as lazy as I make myself sound. Then again, what do I care? Lowered expectations, remember?
• She's more of everything than I ever imagined she would be.  Happy Birthday beautiful girl.

Ganelle Gets Back Tonight - UPDATED

Dear Ganelle: I sure hope you had fun on your cruise. Now when people ask you where you got your tan you can say, “I’ve been in the Caribbean!” instead of, “You know that little booth with the cancer beds off of Main Street?” While you’ve been gone you missed a few things like THREE FREAKIN’ SNOW STORMS. I imagine that’s what Christmas feels like in Hell; at first you’re all, “How nice, I think I’ll just take it easy, have some hot chocolate and read a book.” But then on day seven you’re like, “Where’s that ice pick?! I swear I heard someone smile!” Then again, I felt bad because I thought if it was Christmas then you and your whole family were missing it! And with three young boys, how would you possibly be able to stand missing Christmas, even if it was in Hell?

SO.

I have good news and bad news.

Good news: Your house is still standing.
Bad news: It’s FREEZING in there!! Did you completely turn off the heat while you were gone? What if your pipes froze?!
Good news: We didn’t see any flooding, so I think you’re good.
Bad news: Your Diet Coke looked really lonely sitting in your fridge all by itself.
Good news: As your friend and a woman who had been fasting since 7am, I jumped in to help.

More good news: When I take pictures with my head tilted back it smooths out my double chin. Bonus!
Bad news: You left a puzzle undone.
Good news: That Cory is such a helper!

Bad news: After being cooped up in a frigid house with closed blinds for a solid week your plants were looking forlorn.

Good news: Forlorn is Drew’s specialty! Here he is giving them a little TLC.

Bad news: Your candlesticks had no candles on them. What do you think they are there for anyway?

Good news: Riiiight. Now I remember.

Bad news: The other 33 cans that we hid around your house are not as easy to find.

Good news: THIRTY-SIX FREE CANS OF DIET COKE!

Bad news: Holy crap, it’s Christmas and we didn’t bring any presents!

Good news: You had some stuff in your fridge. Situation UNDER CONTROL.

Bad news: We got on a roll.

Good news: When you get back if someone complains that you weren’t answering your phone you could be like, “Sorry, I had to unwrap it first.” And then you’ll realize that it’s just easier to say you were going to the bathroom.
Bad news: You’re no longer on vacation.

More bad news: This also means that nobody will be delivering you croissants and orange juice to your room just because you picked up the phone and told them to.

To reiterate: Gopher no longer works for you.
Good news: Look at all the pretty colors!

Yours Truly,
Vern
p.s. I told Facebook you were expecting and having a girl. Everyone’s really excited for you!

UPDATE:  The crew got in late Monday night and probably would have slept without knowing anything had happened if it hadn't been for the fact that Ganelle's husband was hungry and went to the kitchen for a quick bowl of cereal.  He announced, "Uhh...it looks like Vern's been here."  The next morning looked like Christmas in the kitchen as the boys made quick work of the unwrapping and not so quick work of the cleaning up of the unwrapping.  She has received several inquiries from family and friends asking if the rumors about her pregnancy were true - Shazam!  More points for me.  The good news is that it looks like we're still friends.  At least I think that's good news....

That's Me In The White Leotard

The other night a friend of mine asked how my health was since my surgery.  Is everything okay?  Am I totally back to normal?  After clarifying that "normal" is somewhat difficult to discern with one who has watched "Ishtar" more than once AND LOVED IT, but I said, "Yes, I believe I am as back to normal as I'm going to get."  I didn't stop there.  "Need I remind you that I will never, EVER, have another period again in my life?  Serious perks with this surgery my friend."  She may not admit it, but she was jealous.  I can't blame her.  However, I don't want all of you to feel like just because I am done menstruating for the rest of my life, (Did I mention that?  That I am free for the rest of my life?!  BECAUSE IT'S FOR LIFE) that somehow I'm no longer relatable.  I'm not like your aunt who had 19 kids (oh.  Hi Michelle Duggar) but then they left home and she forgot all about what it was like to have little ones in the house until YOU came to visit with your small children and she was like, "Don't touch that!  Oh no, not there!  Let's have your kids use this bathroom.  Do you always let little Johnny talk to you like that?"  No, no.  The memories are fresh my friends, and I remember all too well what it was like to moan and groan on the couch with a hot pad strapped around my abdomen and pop four Advil like they were m&m's.  Which is probably why I appreciated this video so much that my friend Gerry sent to me today.  We've all been there (unless you're one of the 3 men who read my blog - hi Cory.  Hi Dad.  Hi Grandpa.  Grandpa?!  Crap, they have INTERNET up there?) and so I'm confident that you will enjoy this too.  Thanks Gerry!

Quandary Outside The Caribbean

Last Friday I drove my friends, Ganelle and Ginger and their families, to the airport. No biggie, except that it was snowing that morning and it just so happened that the purpose of said trip was so my friends could start their journey to a week long cruise in the Caribbean (KU-RIBBY-UN? CARE-A-BEE-IN? I’m still not sure). Ganelle showed up in flip flops as the snowflakes fluttered outside and when I looked at her quizzically she yelled, “I REFUSE TO WEAR LOAFERS WHEN I AM GOING TO THE BEACH!!!” Whatever. I’m used to her yelling in all caps.

At any rate, it was a little annoying to wave them off at the prospect of sunny beaches and swaying palms when I had to turn around and head back into the fray of 30 degrees, but I handled it. As they got out and headed to the gate they both threw me their full sets of keys and said, “Thanks Vern! We promise to return with chocolate!” Their cars are now parked in my driveway serving as a daily reminder that their life is better than mine.

I was okay with that because the next few days proved sunny and spring-like.  But then this morning I woke up to THIS:

So let's recap.  I am HERE:

And Ganelle is here:

I'm not bitter, just emotionally challenged.  Now, for those of you who are new to my blog you may not know about my history with Ganelle. It is somewhat extensive and doesn’t usually utilize adjectives such as “sweet” and “gentle”, but to Ganelle’s detriment she is incredibly loyal so she is still around. Nevertheless, we have played our share of jokes and pranks on each other. She puts my house up for sale when I’m out of town, I make her think her car’s been stolen and wait until she’s about to call 911 before pulling her keys out of my pocket – it’s a very healthy relationship. So after waking to the mass of snow I had to shovel this morning and having to look at Ganelle’s car parked safely near the curb as I imagined a tall, dark and handsome cabana boy delivering her diet Coke poolside, I remembered something. I have all of her keys. I HAVE ALL OF HER KEYS! This is like putting a stripper in front of Tiger Woods and saying, “Don’t Touch.”

She’s overseas. She’s not checking my blog. I have all of her keys and her car is parked in my driveway. But I’m torn. Should I use this opportunity to prove just how behaved I can be and how much she can really trust me by doing nothing? Or do I make the most of this chance and pull a doozie on her? And if so, how do you define “doozie”? Because I have to say, I’ve used up all my good ideas.

Summer Is Almost Here a.k.a. "Diet Failure Awareness Day"

Confession: Last year I started a secret and private blog about my struggles with weight. I kept it secret and private for several reasons. First, I wanted the opportunity to be honest with myself, to make it impossible for me to be anything but transparent. Also, I hate talking about weight. It never feels productive because nobody really cares about anyone’s story other than their own. In other words, I don’t care how many weight watchers points are in your bread, or how many calories are in that Chipotle burrito, or whether you have found joy and salvation from HCG. I don’t care about your success story because it’s not MY success story, and that’s the only one that I have control over. Finally, because trying to be funny is my primary mode of communication and I no longer think this is a joke. I have come to recognize that I sometimes use humor to soften the blow of the truth (ya THINK?!), but that approach is not always in my best interest – getting a laugh doesn’t make the numbers on the scale go down, yet I often use that laugh to give me permission not to change. If I can’t be healthy, I can at least be funny.

Which is the biggest part of my problem. That, and the aforementioned Chipotle burrito who has become a close enough friend that I almost sent it a Christmas card. But I didn’t, because come on, that would be weird. (And then the cilantro lime rice complained.)

So why am I bringing it up now? Because it’s time. To be truthful, I am not morbidly obese or anything, but I’m tired of knowing that there's a better life for me out there that is currently hiding under several extra pounds and compounding unhealthy habits. The noose around my neck is getting tighter and despite numerous attempts, I have yet to make it stop. It's making me slow, and boring, and it makes me feel old at a time when I should be vibrant and full of life. To the average onlooker, that's exactly what I am. I can still carry on a conversation at a party, or crack jokes in a group of friends. But when I get home I turn to the cupboards for friendship, for consolation, for the comfort that I need after I've successfully duped everyone around me. Most of them would be shocked to learn that I feel this way about myself. I feel guilty that my husband has to deal with so many ups and downs with me. He deserves so much better.

And then it hits me.

So do I.

It’s time.

Kitler

There I was, innocently standing at my counter this morning trying to decide, "Is it a brown make up day or a gray make up day for these aging eyes of mine?" As I was about to declare it a Screw-It-Let's-Just-Stick-With-Mascara day, I caught a snippet from a radio DJ who was unknowingly nurturing me through my morning routine when he briefly referenced a website called "Cats That Look Like Hitler". He said it was hilarious and I was intrigued, and y'all know what happens when I get intrigued, right? I have to check it out. Well, FIRST I get a snack. THEN I have to check it out. So, despite the fact that I had lots of crap to get done today I still managed the time to gather this research for you. What can I say? I'm a giver.

EXHIBIT A


EXHIBIT B


EXHIBIT C


Hi Boy George. Sorry to break it to you but there are some striking similarities. Plus, in a way you kind of brought it on yourself. Don't worry, someone once told me I looked like their 98-year-old aunt; these things happen. What does this have to do with cats? Nothing, other than the fact that ALL the Hitler cats I looked at still had better hair than you at any given point in your career. ("Career" - *chuckle* Is that what they're calling it now?)



I sort of feel sorry for these cats because I suspect that all they were trying to do was Darrin's Dance Grooves and before you know it, they're being compared to the worst human being to ever walk the face of the earth. Still, Heil! It's kind of funny when the cats do it.



This last one is so wrong, and yet something about it is sooo...reich? (sorry - couldn't help it)

Feeling Lucky?

LUCKY CARTOON:



LUCKY SONG:




LUCKY BLOG POST: Click here.

LUCKY VIDEO: (I've posted this a hundred times, but it never gets old. Even if you've seen it before, I highly recommend you do it again. For me.)



Green's not my best color so I'm not sure I'll wear any when I go out today, which is why I will also be packing heat. Just in case anyone tries anything.

Small Talk

I've been taking a few notes lately from some recent conversations and thought I would share a few nuggets. Here goes....

***
Samantha: Mom, whatcha doin’?
Mom: Trying to fix this stupid, *&!^% thing.
Samantha: Aaaaand, how’s that workin’ for ya?
***
Samantha took a bite of cookie dough and moaned in approval, “Oh man, this is good stuff.” Drew followed suit, took a bite and then hopped off his chair, and with theatric aplomb declared, “I can WALK! I can SEE!”
***
Conversation with my sister, who believes that the concept of organization is for other people:

Sister: “Guess what I did? I bought a planner.”
Me: “What?!”
Sister: “And guess what else? I WROTE stuff in it.”
Me: “Get out.”
Sister: “And THEN? I LOOKED AT IT AGAIN.”
Me: “Well this is certainly one for the books.”
***
Cory, on the way home from our friends’ house: “When I was in their bathroom I was flipping through her Martha Stewart magazine, and there was this recipe for this lemon custard crepe thingy. We have GOT to Google that when we get home.”
Me: (…)

THE END.

Super Saturday

Sometimes, Mormon women in particular have a reputation for being crafty. I am a lot of things, (prone to disease, the last one picked for dodge ball, rejected as Kathy Lee Gifford's replacement with Regis, you get the idea) but crafty is not likely to appear on my epitaph. Still, I love to show up and make stuff. Next month I am participating in a Saturday activity where several women are getting together to do just that - make stuff. Cool stuff, cute stuff, fun stuff, you name it. One of the things we are making looks something like this:



We are also making magnetic family home evening charts, menu displays, decorative frames, and Articles of Faith books. It takes people other than me to think of stuff like this, because if it were up to me we'd probably all end up with a big vinyl lettered print that looked something like this:



So yeah, I'm pretty sure that's why I'm not in charge.

No Longer Anonymous

When I was in high school there were several stoners who asked me to marry them. “Marry me,” one asked with a doped up smile as we walked one of the many paths across campus. “Very funny,” I replied. Another one proposed to me in my yearbook. “Will you marry me?” he scribbled across the inside cover, the words laced with traces of LSD. It was all very romantic, my stoner proposals, but I never quite knew how to take them. Even though the invitations were in jest, one still confessed to me that I was the “kind of girl a guy like him would want to marry someday.” In other words, right now I’d kind of like to have fun and be irresponsible and make stupid choices, but if I ever decided to get serious about a real relationship you’re the kind of chick I’d be looking for. (P.S. chick = [chik] noun – 1. a girl who had enough fashion sense to wear blue mascara and striped leg warmers on the same day, only to feel inferior if wearing anything less than Guess jeans.) So yeah, the only people who had a thing for me in high school were the ones who hid their weed under their mattresses.

These memories have been recurring to me over the last few weeks because it seems I have moved on to the perverts. I am a big fan of leaving on the Anonymous option for comments on the blog because every once in a while my sister tries to log on, and I want her to have the freedom of speech without the commitment of a Google account. But for whatever reason I have become a magnet lately for inappropriate links to be posted as an anonymous commenter, and I refuse to be any kind of platform for skanky people to get more traffic. So, just like I turned down my stoner proposals I am shutting off my anonymous comments. Sorry Sooz- the pervs made me do it.

Pam Had Her Baby

My love affair with "The Office" has been waning this season. I’m not sure what it is, I just haven’t felt the magic of it lately and my commitment to following along religiously has slacked off. However, last week Pam had her baby and I wanted to watch it so I just caught up with the episode today. (A week later. See what I mean? Slacked. Off.) I found last week’s show to be very entertaining this time around and they won some of my love back, but I was caught off guard by two scenes. The first: Pam was yelling from behind the delivery room door, and I originally thought, “What’s with all the screaming? You’ve heard of the epidural, haven’t you Pam? Please don’t tell me you went all Dharma on me and drank a holistic tea with honey to take the edge off because I would lose all respect. Then again, it would explain the yelling.” So I rolled my eyes a little at the embellished drama emanating from my television when finally, (do I dare say things came to a head?) the scene culminated, the baby came out, smiles and sighs of relief ensued, and the cries of the newborn baby girl wafted through the airwaves and struck a chord within the depths of my menopausal soul.

The scene jumped to Jim and Pam cradling their new bundle in flannel blankets, cooing at her face, pointing out her features and smiling at each other in mutual adoration. And just like that I remembered what that felt like, and…(I cannot believe I am about to say this out loud. Just remember that I am weak, hormonal, completely delusional and prone to singing Celine Dion songs out loud) I missed it. (Why do I feel like I am 16 and I have just told all of you that I am pregnant out of wedlock?) I nervously looked around the room to make sure nobody noticed the sting in my eyes. I caught a glimpse of my daughter, hunched over a homework assignment – her mascara (her MASCARA! Lucas is dead, adults are watching cartoons, vampires are taking over the media AND MY DAUGHTER WEARS MASCARA) was a little smudged under her eyes, her shoulders stooped just enough to give way to the pressure she felt over a looming test – a far cry from the little girl with pigtails who used to attack a jar of peanut butter while I wasn’t looking and crawl in bed with me in the morning to snuggle. I shot a glance toward my son – practicing his mid air leaps wielding a pocket knife, and the sort to use affection as a bargaining chip (Hey Mom, If I give you a hug can I have a cookie?) – he looked a far cry from the boy who used to line up his toy cars in a straight line and carry multiple plastic animals in each hand. I tried to snap myself back into reality by noting, “Yes, but see that snack there that your daughter is eating? She got that BY HERSELF. WHILE YOU DID NOT GET UP. AND P.S. THAT KID IS THE REASON YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO HIRE A BABYSITTER AGAIN. GET A GRIP ALREADY.” So I did.

The episode continued with shots of Jim and Pam not sleeping, of waking in the middle of the night to diagnose the cries, to feed the baby who wouldn’t latch on and change the diaper that was soaked through, and I went, “Ooohhhh…riiiiiight. I remember this now. See? It’s not all smurfs and butterflies.” But THEN! The baby DID latch on, and Pam got excited and the baby got excited and I heard THAT SOUND. You know the one? There’s a sound that a baby makes when she is hungry – similar to that made after one has crossed the Mojave Desert in August wearing polar fleece and eating nothing but Ritz crackers before happening upon a natural spring – she reaches the fountain of living waters (or in this case, breast milk) and indulges so enthusiastically that one struggles to decipher whether the gasps for air are due to suffocation or satisfaction. And you guys, I am telling you right now that hearing that sound, whether recorded in a Hollywood studio or not, practically unglued me. (Though it does beg the question, how does that sound get recorded? Some innocent lady sitting in the park one day whips it out to feed her crying baby, only to be approached by some TV executive who asks, “’Scuse me ma’am, would you mind if I just slipped this little microphone down there for a second? It’ll only take a minute, and I promise not to linger. It would really help me out. My boss has been BREATHING DOWN MY BACK over this, and...no really, I’m a TV producer. What, you wanna see my business card? Oh, of course, let me just grab it here...whoops! Did I just....? Sorry. My bad. Well, I guess that’s a wrap!”) Anyway, I was taken aback by my reaction to a sound that was emanating from a FICTIONAL story coming out of the television and I realized, "This must be what Patrick Dempsey feels like when there's a medical emergency and everyone looks at him like, 'Well doc? You going to do something or just stand there?' and he has to explain, 'GUYS. It's just a TV SHOW.'" But it didn't matter. I had to admit, if but for a fraction of a second, that I missed it.

Truth be told, it felt good to miss it. Because the fact of the matter is, I love my kids. Did you hear me? I LOVE MY KIDS. I would jump in front of a freight train if it meant saving their life. I have volunteered at their schools, which for me, may as well be hurling my body in front of a freight train. I would climb mountains (as long as I had really good boots), swim across oceans (providing I lose all the weight I need to look good in a bathing suit), and scale any obstacle (as long as it doesn’t involve translating for Ozzy Osbourne) to help my children. But the other hard truth is that being a mother, for me, has not filled me up in the way that I hear some women talk about. It doesn’t feed my soul, I don’t feel like it’s what I was meant to do all my life, I don’t relish most of our days, and I don’t feel like I am doing God’s work. There. I said it. That doesn’t mean I don’t recognize that what I do has value, because I surely believe it does, but that is another topic for another day.

Today, I guess what I mainly wanted to say is that sometimes I really do miss my babies. I don’t want it back, but I hope God is keeping lots of videos for me to watch after I die and go to heaven so I can remember every little good thing that happened here. And I hope He throws out the one where I yell at Drew for getting into my “good” jewelry.

Airing My Dirty Laundry

This is my pile of dirty laundry:



This is my CLEAN laundry:



Consider this my formal invitation to BASK IN MY GREATNESS.

NOTE: No small children were harmed (or buried, or lost) in the taking of these photos. I wish I could say the same about my self respect.

Incidentally, NOT the stuff you pull out of your belly button

The other night Cory came home talking about some people at work and what they have committed to giving up for Lent. Lent started this year on February 17th (Ash Wednesday), goes until Easter, and excludes Sundays, totaling 40 days of observance. It begs the question, what would you be willing to give up for 40 days? Lent isn’t something that my religion practices, but I’d like to think if we did observe it I would be really brave about it. I hear a lot about people giving up chocolate during Lent. I don’t think I would do that for a couple of reasons. One, it’s too cliché and I think I’d want to appear holier than everyone else by doing something that nobody else was doing and prove that I was really thinking outside the box. Also, chocolate is too much a part of me. Would you ask Tim McGraw to give up his cowboy hat? Or tell Bono to lose the sunglasses? Or ask Snooki to remove her Bump-It? I DON’T THINK SO. And don’t try to tell me that there’s a difference between the vice of chocolate and wearing a simple pair of sunglasses – we all know Bono is hiding something. At any rate, as I thought about what I COULD do if I was a Lent observing Christian and wanted to show my commitment, I found that most things fell into one of two categories: Stuff I would never give up, and Stuff I could EASILY give up.

STUFF I WOULD NEVER GIVE UP – Toilet paper and chap stick. That’s pretty much it. Incidentally, this is also the reason I have never applied for Survivor.

STUFF I COULD EASILY GIVE UP:

1. Museums. I want to say that I love them because I think it would make me sound smarter, but I just don’t have it in me. The only thing that’s probably more boring than going to a museum is thinking about going to a museum. If someone asks, "I'm thinking about going to a museum, wanna come?" what I hear is, "I'm thinking about reading all of the encyclopedias on microbiology while listening to Enya, wanna come?" The only thing worse than that was when my best friend’s Dad used to say to me when we were little, “Hey Vern, come here! I wanna show you these slides from our trip!”
2. Fish. I really want to like fish, what with all the chatter that goes around about how good it is for you. Protein! Omega 3 fatty acids! Can we digress here for a second to talk about the “fatty acids”? I don’t even really know what they are, but could there be a worse thing to call something that is actually GOOD for you? That’s like calling someone a HUGE PIG and being like, “No REALLY! It’s a COMPLIMENT!” Fatty acids. Is that like getting on a roller coaster called “THE SUICIDE BOMBER” and having people try to assure you, “It’s kinda crazy at first, but once you get on you’ll be like, ‘Oh my gosh! I’ve never had more fun in my life!’” Where was I? Oh yeah, I don’t like fish.
3. Submarine travel. I know it sounds nutty, but I think I could live without it - and not even just for the 40 days.
4. Giving up on the idea that I will ever be able to fit in my wedding dress ever again. I might even have a head start on this one, because I sort of gave up on this idea ever since my goal weight became the same as what I weighed at 6 months gestation with my pregnancies.

I’m pretty sure I’ve missed the whole message and intention of what Lent is really about, but still. I think I make some pretty good points.

Potty Talk

A few days ago Drew went walking past the downstairs bathroom, then came out of the hallway waving his arm back and forth across his face while saying, "Phew! NEVER go into the bathroom after Dad." A few days later Drew went in and spent a some quality time in that bathroom himself. When he came out he said, "Just so you know, you may not want to go in there for a couple of hours." Samantha only caught part of the conversation, and came in from the other room for clarification. "What?" she asked. "Don't go in the bathroom for two days?" To which Drew responded, "That works too."

Don't you wish you lived here?

I Just Searched The Word "Hemorrhoids" On Twitter

I am not technologically fluent. When I started this blog I had to call my brother who walked me through it.
“Go to blogger dot com.”
“Okay.”
“Now pick a name.”
“Okay.”
“Click ‘Next’.”
“Got it.”
“Now look up ‘stupid’ in the dictionary.”
“All right.”
“Good. Now, see your picture?”
Of course my brother didn’t say that because he is not a jerk, but that’s pretty much how I feel sometimes when it comes to new territory. I’m the kind of person who watches the Today Show during the holidays when they feature the latest and greatest gadgets as gift ideas and gets totally overwhelmed. Matt Lauer will be standing there with his blue cue cards going, “So this little thing here the size of a tylenol can record up to seven hours of conversation, flush toilets remotely, alphabetize your spices AND teleport milk to your refrigerator on a Saturday morning ALL WITH THE PUSH OF A BUTTON?” And I’d be the one at home rocking in the corner in the fetal position, freaking out because the world is headed in a direction where I have to worry about every bloody thing I say for fear it will show up on the internet and I’ll be too dumb to know how to prevent it. I would also be the one thinking, “Remote flusher? How lame is that?” But then I would remember the one time we had company over and someone used the guest bathroom and forgot to flush the toilet, but we didn’t know it and then we went on vacation for a week and came back and…well, then we DID know it.

So, I guess what I’m saying is that it’s hard for me to keep up. I don’t want to learn a new gadget every six months to be able to stay current with the rest of mankind. I never did MySpace, I am not a fan of facebook, and I have tried to put my foot down on Twitter. But the reality is, I feel like my disdain for all things techy is leaving me behind in a way that I can’t compensate for otherwise. It’s like the boss you have to get along with, whether you like it or not, if you want to keep your job.

At any rate, a few days ago I was reading some pro arguments over at Navel Gazing (Who I sure have been linking to a lot lately and somehow feel I should be compensated, perhaps as a randomly selected winner of the hp compaq mini CQ10...for example) for going Team Twitter, starting with, “It’s a great way to get to know other bloggers.” Should I care about this? I mean, if I don’t know you then I don’t really know what I’m missing out on. And if I DO get to know you then that means I will likely clock more hours on this here laptop following you. And frankly, I’m not sure I have that kind of time. Second on Sue’s list, “Twitter can help drive traffic to your blog.” Again, should I care? (Different than “DO I care?” Because oh yes, I CARE.) But does it really matter? I don’t like to play games. Either you want to be here or not. I don’t want people to come visit my blog just because they have become friends with me on Twitter and suddenly feel obligated. Shouldn’t the material just speak for itself? If you like it, fine. If not, fine. Right?

Finally, the author mentioned how Twitter can give you information that you won’t get anywhere else. I’m sure she’s right, which is why, for the first time ever, I logged on to Twitter. But when I got there I didn’t really know where to start. So I sat for a second and stared at the search button. What do I want to know about? And then it hit me. Hemorrhoids. I should totally do a search on hemorrhoids! Because I am getting older you know, and according to all the commercials this is bound to become a problem at some point and heaven forbid that Twitter holds all the answers to a cure and I’m stuck at home leafing through my AARP pamphlet and rummaging for Preparation-H. I typed it in.
H-e-m-o-r-r-h-o-i-d-s.

It produced exactly 0 results. Really, Twitter? Is that all you’ve got? So that was it and I walked away from my computer. I’m pretty sure I’m missing the big picture on this but at least now when people ask, “Have you ever gone on Twitter?” I can say, “Yes! Yes I have!” like the rest of the world. I might try again later but for now, I’m calling it good.