A couple of months ago, I casually mentioned to my sister, Crash, that my husband’s 40th birthday had come and gone.
“What?!!!!” she said. “I didn’t know that! Tell him I’ve got a card, but it’s gonna be late.”
“O.K.” This has been a major concern of my husband’s for weeks, I am certain, that my sister did not remember his birthday.
“If you’re not on Facebook, I can’t be expected to remember your birthday,” she chided.
“Hmm. That’s good to know,” I replied. Yet another discriminatory remark against those of us not part of the FB cult.
Anyway, this is a long way of saying that I don’t rely on Facebook to remind me of people’s birthdays. Which is good because I don’t use Facebook.
However, a little bird told me that our blog pal, The Hobbler, is celebrating her special day today.
So, I would like to say a big ole “HAPPY HOBBLING BIRTHDAY TO YOU, HOBBLER!!!!!”
You might actually be someone other than The Hobbler, and are probably wondering by now why you are even reading this post. I will direct you now to one of The Hobbler’s Top Tens, and you can thank me later. Just don’t forget. You know – to come back and thank me.
Sometimes I imagine, when my toe begins to itch in the middle of the night, that I am an international spy who is being tortured for information, and I must resist, at all costs, the urge to give it all up. I last about 5 seconds.
When my daughter sings the same five words from a song over and over again, I again imagine that I am a spy being tortured – but in this case I have no information to give up.
Sometimes I imagine that I am a gifted singer singing a duet with Adam Levine on my car radio, and that a recording executive happens to be in the car next to me and will do anything to get my name, including executing foolish maneuvers on the road to get my attention. I am the only one driving insanely.
Conversely, I also like to imagine that I am a horrible singer and that my voice has completely paralyzed the stalker who is crouched in the back of my car.
When I buy a toy for a future birthday/holiday, etc… and hide it in my closet, I imagine a family member discovering it after I’ve died from a tragic accident (perhaps when the recording executive cut me off in his zeal to sign me to a record contract) and crying hysterically over my thoughtfulness.
When I fling a piece of laundry into the closet, missing the hamper, I imagine a family member discovering bits of lingerie and various stages of embarrassing fat pants in the nooks and crannies of my closet after I’ve died from a ridiculous freak accident (like jumping in front of a recording executive’s car so he would sign me to a record contract) and posting the evidence of my slovenliness on FaceBook.
I don’t use FaceBook. One reason is that whenever I imagine myself as a famous dead author, I worry that people will hunt down my Facebook posts and invent elaborate explanations of my writing from the seemingly boring pictures of my mundane existence.
Whenever I reflect on my prosaic life story, I imagine that I would make a great spy because seemingly boring people are perfect undercover operatives.
Then I try to go to sleep and my toe begins to itch.
Note to self: Do NOT EVER AGAIN Look Up “Big Toe” on Google Images. Gross!!!!!!
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/7876912@N07/6439755299/”>bubjay</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a>
Since I kind of gave everything I had yesterday, and my Writer’s Block shows little signs of subsiding, I am going to resort to the handy blogger trick of making a list. I’ve decided that I will update you on some of the previous posts, cleverly trying to get you to read other parts of my blog if you happen to be a new visitor.
First update – I’ve decided that I will definitely not do porn. Anytime soon. I have gotten more information on the Adult Spelling Bee to be held in December, and it seems that I will not have to do any stripping if I miss a word. My contact tells me that they will be selecting a book from which to obtain a word list, which should be fine – as long as it is from the Dr. Seuss series. If the words are more than one syllable, I may be in trouble. According to the organizers, there is no registration necessary, which worries me due to my problem with staying committed to activities in which I have no monetary investment.
Update Deuce – Wonderbutt’s Weight Loss Challenge. We have reduced Wonderbutt’s chow intake, and increased his two minute workout to three point five. Here are the before and after pics. The difference is astounding.
C. Big Mean Kitty – is on his way to the Great Landfill in the Sky. More about that tomorrow if my Brain Barricade is lifted by then.
4. Cap’n Firepants has not taken exception to any of the posts including him other than the fact that he still can’t understand why he is called Cap’n Firepants.
Next – Dimples is still torturing me with her homework and her questions from the backseat of the car. My answers apparently bear no weight though. I pointed out an excellent example of a skank yesterday when we chanced upon a Halloween costume site, and she asked me, “Now what was that again?”
*I still don’t do Facebook, even though there are lots of people I like.
Also – Every week I capture in my blogging web at least one person who apparently was trying to find out if John Denver really suffered from depression, according to my site stats. I’m not sure what would be more depressing – if it is the same person, or that there are multiple people with this concern.
Lastly – I’m also somewhat worried about the person who landed on my site when they Googled, “I want my pants back.” Was he or she hoping for specific results when typing that in? How disappointing it must have been to click on the link that directed them here. And so, I felt obligated to title my post today in such a manner that this person’s search will provide an answer to the somewhat demanding statement, “I want my pants back.” They might find it more satisfying than reading about the exploits of Cap’n Firepants, who I am not willing to surrender at any price.
Let me clarify. The absence of me liking you does not necessarily mean that I dislike you.
And now you are probably beginning to understand the title of my blog. I have a slight communication problem. Usually it sorts itself out when I am typing, as opposed to when I am speaking. I seem to be having technical difficulties today.
O.K. So, let’s begin again. I do not do Facebook. Why, you may ask, am I the one forty something year old woman on God’s green Earth who does not participate in this massive social network? Am I so technologically inept that I can’t even build a Wall and upload Photos?
Of course I could do these things; I just choose not to do them on Facebook. Let me tell you, people, I am so tech savvy, I probably knew about Facebook before you were even born. I considered opening an account way before people ever thought tweeting about going to the bathroom would be a fun way to spend the day. But I didn’t. Because I figured Facebook was a non-starter, and I didn’t have the time to waste reporting my life story as it happened.
Yeah. I know. Ironic, huh? I thought maxi dresses were never going to take off, either.
Anyway, I fill my time with other things, so now I can’t be bothered with such trivial details as playing Farmville.
First of all, I must check my stats. Secondly, I must visit every blog I can find and comment so that the authors will be amazed by my wittiness and feel the need to visit my own site. Then, I must try to compose my next new latest and greatest blog post. In addition, I have to download app updates on my iDevices, restock my store in Fashion Story, and check to see if there are any new Glee songs that I want to sing and record. I have to make my moves on: Words with Friends, Hangin’ with Friends, and Chess with Friends. By that time, it’s time to check my stats again.
You see my dilemma.
So, I want you to know that when you “Like” me, I really appreciate it. And I would love to return the favor. In most cases, I visit your blog and try to write a clever comment on your most recent post. As soon as I figure out what the heck I’m doing with my Google Plus account, I will even +1 you. What I mean to say is, “Please don’t be offended if I don’t like you back.”
It’s not you. It’s me. Really.
“I’m not a big fan of that.” This is what Dimples says when she does not like something – usually the food placed in front of her on the table. What she really means, of course, is that she wants to know how exactly much of this vile food she must force down her throat in order to qualify for dessert.
It would be easier for me to list the foods she is a fan of, than to try to log all of the ones that disgust her. Scratch that. It would be easier to list all of the nutritious foods she likes (all three of them) than the ones she pushes around her plate indefinitely.
It does no good to remind her that she claimed to like that particular food two weeks ago. Or to point out that one of the foods on her current short list of favorites was actually a deeply detested food the first three times it landed on her plate.
As picky eaters go, Dimples is actually pretty good about it. She might declare that she’s “not a fan”, but she still grudgingly sits through the movie, so to speak. She just makes sure we are aware of her distaste and then takes as long as possible to ingest it – leaving herself more time to make a deal with her father regarding what percentage must end up in her stomach instead of the plate. (I let her father make the deals, because he’s usually the one who served her up triple sized helpings to begin with, apparently either suffering under the delusion that Dimples is a 300 pound cowboy who needs to keep up his strength for bull riding or fearful that our daughter will die of malnutrition before her next meal.)
So, I’m trying to think of a clever retort for the next time she publicly denies fandom to a food item. How about one of these:
“You don’t have to post the picture on your Wall.”
“I’m not asking you to friend it on Facebook, just eat it already!”
“Just eat it, don’t Tweet it.”
“The last I checked, Yelp wasn’t asking for ratings of your mother’s cooking.”
…Oh my God – there’s not an app for that, is there?
I am looking for the line. That line that all adults seem to cross where they turn from hip, risk takers who love to attend concerts, into cranky anxious people who keep telling you to turn the music down. There’s gotta be a line, right? Or actually, a thick border, I’m thinking, because I doubt this happens over night. We all know those adults, right, the ones who seem to be mired in the last century? They surely weren’t born that way. So, at what exact point did they decide to step to the right on the moving sidewalk of life and let everyone else run past?
I am on the lookout because I seem to remember from my youth observing a lot of people in this particular decade of age-itude who had crossed over to the dark side. So I am wary of doing the same. Is it my refusal to participate in Facebook that marks the beginning of the end? Or the fact that I switch my radio to NPR whenever my daughter isn’t in the car?
Although I am actually trying to stay on the youthful side of the line, I am suddenly aware of people who are ready to push me over anyway. The surprised pause in the conversation when I quote the lyrics of a Top 20 song gives them away. So do the raised eyebrows when I wear a skirt that doesn’t cover my knees.
The biggest threat, though, seems to be coming from within. My own body seems to be ready to betray me. I love to try new things, and I finally have enough self confidence at 42 to actually try them. For example, I never ice skated as a child, but tried it a few years ago with my daughter. I loved it. I took her yesterday, and I was so touched that she still wasn’t embarrassed about me skating with her that I skated almost the entire time. And now, my body is letting me know that it does not approve of such unbecoming behavior from an adult. My muscles ache and I’m still exhausted 24 hours later. My daughter, on the other hand, went skating again today, and is currently turning cartwheels in the living room. The kid makes Tigger look he should be put in a nursing home.
We’re taking our daughter to a Maroon 5/Train/Matt Nathanson concert in a month. Not exactly cutting edge music, but it’s not Garrison Keillor, either. It’s her first “real” concert; she can’t wait. I’m actually more concerned that the music isn’t too loud for her, since she held her hands over her ears during two hours of Trans-Siberian Orchestra.
She was excited to learn that we get to sit in the grass, thinking that we bought those tickets for the better ambiance, rather than the relative cheapness. I’m wondering if we should have sprung for some chairs – you know, because my creaky old body might have a hard time getting vertical again after sitting for two hours on the ground.
I’m kind of beginning to think I’ve already crossed the line.