Snowy
Blowy
Achy
Coldy
(We had lots of snow today. In anticipation of the storm, I revved up the snowblower to get rid of last weeks offering. We had round two tonight. Tonight I'm very achy and cold.)
Shopped
Dropped
(Saturday wouldn't be Saturday without a trip to the grocery store.)
Bought it
Fought it
Roughed it
Stuffed it
(So what else do you do on a winter warning freeze-your-butt-off kind of day? Buy furniture. That you have to stuff in a car. That's too small so you have to make more than one trip. Maybe not one of my brightest ideas)
Trembled
Assembled
Pushed it
Squoooshed it
(It was awfully big and bulky but I shoved it in the house and started putting it together. Although it took me longer than I was planning, this is one well-made piece of furniture!)
Now bed
I'm dead
seeya tomorrow
she said.
(There aren't words for how tired I am. Just take my word for it. Cold and tired. Tired and cold. That's me)
Showing posts with label NaBloPoMo 2008. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NaBloPoMo 2008. Show all posts
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Here's a Surprise
Snowy
Blowy
Achy
Coldy
(We had lots of snow today. In anticipation of the storm, I revved up the snowblower to get rid of last weeks offering. We had round two tonight. Tonight I'm very achy and cold.)
Shopped
Dropped
(Saturday wouldn't be Saturday without a trip to the grocery store.)
Bought it
Fought it
Roughed it
Stuffed it
(So what else do you do on a winter warning freeze-your-butt-off kind of day? Buy furniture. That you have to stuff in a car. That's too small so you have to make more than one trip. Maybe not one of my brightest ideas)
Trembled
Assembled
Pushed it
Squoooshed it
(It was awfully big and bulky but I shoved it in the house and started putting it together. Although it took me longer than I was planning, this is one well-made piece of furniture!)
Now bed
I'm dead
seeya tomorrow
she said.
(There aren't words for how tired I am. Just take my word for it. Cold and tired. Tired and cold. That's me)
Blowy
Achy
Coldy
(We had lots of snow today. In anticipation of the storm, I revved up the snowblower to get rid of last weeks offering. We had round two tonight. Tonight I'm very achy and cold.)
Shopped
Dropped
(Saturday wouldn't be Saturday without a trip to the grocery store.)
Bought it
Fought it
Roughed it
Stuffed it
(So what else do you do on a winter warning freeze-your-butt-off kind of day? Buy furniture. That you have to stuff in a car. That's too small so you have to make more than one trip. Maybe not one of my brightest ideas)
Trembled
Assembled
Pushed it
Squoooshed it
(It was awfully big and bulky but I shoved it in the house and started putting it together. Although it took me longer than I was planning, this is one well-made piece of furniture!)
Now bed
I'm dead
seeya tomorrow
she said.
(There aren't words for how tired I am. Just take my word for it. Cold and tired. Tired and cold. That's me)
Friday, January 09, 2009
Give a Hoot, Read a Book
Last night I made an effort to improve both the quality and quantity of my reading time. On the surface, each seemed like an easy solution. Quantity could be improved simply by staying awake for more than 3 minutes. Quality was a somewhat more subjective subject. Last night, though, it was a no-brainer. I put down my current read:
and picked up a book I got for Christmas:
It seemed to be just the swap I was needing. Quality went up just by the fact that the title didn't include the word shit. Quantity also rose -- I made it to 5 minutes (!!) before I gave up and turned off the light.
Now you're probably expecting me 1. to tell you where and when I bought the first book, and 2. to tell you how much better the 2nd book was. To answer the first question, I bought it this past summer (August '08) at the Gatwick Airport, London. It just looked like a good airplane book, if you know what I mean, and it would have been one too, if I hadn't gotten wrapped up in David Sedaris' latest offering. As for the second question, it's just not that easy. I'm halfway done without even breaking a sweat, and of course, it is written beautifully. But it doesn't mean that it's better. It's just different.
But it's just different in a "but they are very much the same" kind of way. Both of them tell it like it is. One is a bit more acerbic than the other, but in my world, a life-truth is a life-truth, no matter how it is presented. Sometimes I prefer the lofty thought, the beautiful language and the uplifted, illuminated truth. Other times though, I need the hot dog and fries. I'm just as happy with the truth presented in an uncouth manner, snark phasers set to stun. It's a little like setting your iPod to play Beethoven and then play Beach Boys. You like them both, and put the whole mess on shuffle, and somehow it all works.
So I'm off to crawl into bed yet again and go for SIX minutes tonight without nodding off. That, however, could be dicey, so please don't bet real money. Then we'll see what comes in the morning. It just may be time to pick out something new.
and picked up a book I got for Christmas:
It seemed to be just the swap I was needing. Quality went up just by the fact that the title didn't include the word shit. Quantity also rose -- I made it to 5 minutes (!!) before I gave up and turned off the light.
Now you're probably expecting me 1. to tell you where and when I bought the first book, and 2. to tell you how much better the 2nd book was. To answer the first question, I bought it this past summer (August '08) at the Gatwick Airport, London. It just looked like a good airplane book, if you know what I mean, and it would have been one too, if I hadn't gotten wrapped up in David Sedaris' latest offering. As for the second question, it's just not that easy. I'm halfway done without even breaking a sweat, and of course, it is written beautifully. But it doesn't mean that it's better. It's just different.
But it's just different in a "but they are very much the same" kind of way. Both of them tell it like it is. One is a bit more acerbic than the other, but in my world, a life-truth is a life-truth, no matter how it is presented. Sometimes I prefer the lofty thought, the beautiful language and the uplifted, illuminated truth. Other times though, I need the hot dog and fries. I'm just as happy with the truth presented in an uncouth manner, snark phasers set to stun. It's a little like setting your iPod to play Beethoven and then play Beach Boys. You like them both, and put the whole mess on shuffle, and somehow it all works.
So I'm off to crawl into bed yet again and go for SIX minutes tonight without nodding off. That, however, could be dicey, so please don't bet real money. Then we'll see what comes in the morning. It just may be time to pick out something new.
Give a Hoot, Read a Book
Last night I made an effort to improve both the quality and quantity of my reading time. On the surface, each seemed like an easy solution. Quantity could be improved simply by staying awake for more than 3 minutes. Quality was a somewhat more subjective subject. Last night, though, it was a no-brainer. I put down my current read:
and picked up a book I got for Christmas:
It seemed to be just the swap I was needing. Quality went up just by the fact that the title didn't include the word shit. Quantity also rose -- I made it to 5 minutes (!!) before I gave up and turned off the light.
Now you're probably expecting me 1. to tell you where and when I bought the first book, and 2. to tell you how much better the 2nd book was. To answer the first question, I bought it this past summer (August '08) at the Gatwick Airport, London. It just looked like a good airplane book, if you know what I mean, and it would have been one too, if I hadn't gotten wrapped up in David Sedaris' latest offering. As for the second question, it's just not that easy. I'm halfway done without even breaking a sweat, and of course, it is written beautifully. But it doesn't mean that it's better. It's just different.
But it's just different in a "but they are very much the same" kind of way. Both of them tell it like it is. One is a bit more acerbic than the other, but in my world, a life-truth is a life-truth, no matter how it is presented. Sometimes I prefer the lofty thought, the beautiful language and the uplifted, illuminated truth. Other times though, I need the hot dog and fries. I'm just as happy with the truth presented in an uncouth manner, snark phasers set to stun. It's a little like setting your iPod to play Beethoven and then play Beach Boys. You like them both, and put the whole mess on shuffle, and somehow it all works.
So I'm off to crawl into bed yet again and go for SIX minutes tonight without nodding off. That, however, could be dicey, so please don't bet real money. Then we'll see what comes in the morning. It just may be time to pick out something new.
and picked up a book I got for Christmas:It seemed to be just the swap I was needing. Quality went up just by the fact that the title didn't include the word shit. Quantity also rose -- I made it to 5 minutes (!!) before I gave up and turned off the light.
Now you're probably expecting me 1. to tell you where and when I bought the first book, and 2. to tell you how much better the 2nd book was. To answer the first question, I bought it this past summer (August '08) at the Gatwick Airport, London. It just looked like a good airplane book, if you know what I mean, and it would have been one too, if I hadn't gotten wrapped up in David Sedaris' latest offering. As for the second question, it's just not that easy. I'm halfway done without even breaking a sweat, and of course, it is written beautifully. But it doesn't mean that it's better. It's just different.
But it's just different in a "but they are very much the same" kind of way. Both of them tell it like it is. One is a bit more acerbic than the other, but in my world, a life-truth is a life-truth, no matter how it is presented. Sometimes I prefer the lofty thought, the beautiful language and the uplifted, illuminated truth. Other times though, I need the hot dog and fries. I'm just as happy with the truth presented in an uncouth manner, snark phasers set to stun. It's a little like setting your iPod to play Beethoven and then play Beach Boys. You like them both, and put the whole mess on shuffle, and somehow it all works.
So I'm off to crawl into bed yet again and go for SIX minutes tonight without nodding off. That, however, could be dicey, so please don't bet real money. Then we'll see what comes in the morning. It just may be time to pick out something new.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
And What's More...
First of all, there is not January thaw in the foreseeable future. Quite the contrary. Tonight? Snowing. Tomorrow? HooBoy! snowsnowSNOW! Anywhere from three to eight inches. Which, in reality means anywhere from none at all to a foot or more. Because as much as weather people like to study clouds and science and patterns and tell us exactly what for, when push comes to shove, they really don't have any more guarantee than Great Grandma Gertrude's aching bunion.
Today as I ventured north to teach my class, I must confess...it wasn't horrible outside. I would go so far as to say it was nice outside. And sunny. And pretty. And all the way north I thought to myself, "well, maybe this isn't so bad after all." But on the return trip, the closer I got to home, the duller, drabber and darker it got. My mood? Well that went right along for the ride. I think there is really something to the whole Seasonal Affective Disorder, although I have a hard time believing that sitting in front of a high-powered lightbulb is really the solution.
And, Hooray! I just got a "We're all going to DIE from the weather" email from my emergency email system. They provide good information but it is always sent in caps and has the aura of DEFCON 11 CODE RED. I mean, granted, I have been complaining long and loud lately about the snow, but deep down, I know it's just snow. Just. Snow. Shovels. Snowblowers. Or just stay inside for awhile. Just. Snow.
In other news I'm trying to come up with a way to be productive and not assume the fetal position for the next three months. My plan (that I just made 15 seconds ago) is to make a list with some achievable goals (no world peace this week, sorry) and then achieve them. My first goal is cull a minimum of two extra-large trash bags from the upstairs or downstairs. My second goal is to find a new recipe and cook it. My third goal is to do something creative that would count as exercise. My fourth goal is 30 minutes a day with a book in hand -- CONSCIOUS -- and reading it. My fifth goal is to get rid of the recycling, unless of course, my only method of leaving my house is via mush dog. These goals may sound way too easy, but let me assure you, if I can manage to achieve these goals, that's going to be a big one in the win column for me. We'll see how it goes.
And now, my last goal? In bed before midnight. And that hasn't happened in over a week. I think it's a bit overdue. So I'm off to find my book and a furry, purring foot-warmer.
Goodnight Internets. Stay warm.
Today as I ventured north to teach my class, I must confess...it wasn't horrible outside. I would go so far as to say it was nice outside. And sunny. And pretty. And all the way north I thought to myself, "well, maybe this isn't so bad after all." But on the return trip, the closer I got to home, the duller, drabber and darker it got. My mood? Well that went right along for the ride. I think there is really something to the whole Seasonal Affective Disorder, although I have a hard time believing that sitting in front of a high-powered lightbulb is really the solution.
And, Hooray! I just got a "We're all going to DIE from the weather" email from my emergency email system. They provide good information but it is always sent in caps and has the aura of DEFCON 11 CODE RED. I mean, granted, I have been complaining long and loud lately about the snow, but deep down, I know it's just snow. Just. Snow. Shovels. Snowblowers. Or just stay inside for awhile. Just. Snow.
In other news I'm trying to come up with a way to be productive and not assume the fetal position for the next three months. My plan (that I just made 15 seconds ago) is to make a list with some achievable goals (no world peace this week, sorry) and then achieve them. My first goal is cull a minimum of two extra-large trash bags from the upstairs or downstairs. My second goal is to find a new recipe and cook it. My third goal is to do something creative that would count as exercise. My fourth goal is 30 minutes a day with a book in hand -- CONSCIOUS -- and reading it. My fifth goal is to get rid of the recycling, unless of course, my only method of leaving my house is via mush dog. These goals may sound way too easy, but let me assure you, if I can manage to achieve these goals, that's going to be a big one in the win column for me. We'll see how it goes.
And now, my last goal? In bed before midnight. And that hasn't happened in over a week. I think it's a bit overdue. So I'm off to find my book and a furry, purring foot-warmer.
Goodnight Internets. Stay warm.
And What's More...
First of all, there is not January thaw in the foreseeable future. Quite the contrary. Tonight? Snowing. Tomorrow? HooBoy! snowsnowSNOW! Anywhere from three to eight inches. Which, in reality means anywhere from none at all to a foot or more. Because as much as weather people like to study clouds and science and patterns and tell us exactly what for, when push comes to shove, they really don't have any more guarantee than Great Grandma Gertrude's aching bunion.
Today as I ventured north to teach my class, I must confess...it wasn't horrible outside. I would go so far as to say it was nice outside. And sunny. And pretty. And all the way north I thought to myself, "well, maybe this isn't so bad after all." But on the return trip, the closer I got to home, the duller, drabber and darker it got. My mood? Well that went right along for the ride. I think there is really something to the whole Seasonal Affective Disorder, although I have a hard time believing that sitting in front of a high-powered lightbulb is really the solution.
And, Hooray! I just got a "We're all going to DIE from the weather" email from my emergency email system. They provide good information but it is always sent in caps and has the aura of DEFCON 11 CODE RED. I mean, granted, I have been complaining long and loud lately about the snow, but deep down, I know it's just snow. Just. Snow. Shovels. Snowblowers. Or just stay inside for awhile. Just. Snow.
In other news I'm trying to come up with a way to be productive and not assume the fetal position for the next three months. My plan (that I just made 15 seconds ago) is to make a list with some achievable goals (no world peace this week, sorry) and then achieve them. My first goal is cull a minimum of two extra-large trash bags from the upstairs or downstairs. My second goal is to find a new recipe and cook it. My third goal is to do something creative that would count as exercise. My fourth goal is 30 minutes a day with a book in hand -- CONSCIOUS -- and reading it. My fifth goal is to get rid of the recycling, unless of course, my only method of leaving my house is via mush dog. These goals may sound way too easy, but let me assure you, if I can manage to achieve these goals, that's going to be a big one in the win column for me. We'll see how it goes.
And now, my last goal? In bed before midnight. And that hasn't happened in over a week. I think it's a bit overdue. So I'm off to find my book and a furry, purring foot-warmer.
Goodnight Internets. Stay warm.
Today as I ventured north to teach my class, I must confess...it wasn't horrible outside. I would go so far as to say it was nice outside. And sunny. And pretty. And all the way north I thought to myself, "well, maybe this isn't so bad after all." But on the return trip, the closer I got to home, the duller, drabber and darker it got. My mood? Well that went right along for the ride. I think there is really something to the whole Seasonal Affective Disorder, although I have a hard time believing that sitting in front of a high-powered lightbulb is really the solution.
And, Hooray! I just got a "We're all going to DIE from the weather" email from my emergency email system. They provide good information but it is always sent in caps and has the aura of DEFCON 11 CODE RED. I mean, granted, I have been complaining long and loud lately about the snow, but deep down, I know it's just snow. Just. Snow. Shovels. Snowblowers. Or just stay inside for awhile. Just. Snow.
In other news I'm trying to come up with a way to be productive and not assume the fetal position for the next three months. My plan (that I just made 15 seconds ago) is to make a list with some achievable goals (no world peace this week, sorry) and then achieve them. My first goal is cull a minimum of two extra-large trash bags from the upstairs or downstairs. My second goal is to find a new recipe and cook it. My third goal is to do something creative that would count as exercise. My fourth goal is 30 minutes a day with a book in hand -- CONSCIOUS -- and reading it. My fifth goal is to get rid of the recycling, unless of course, my only method of leaving my house is via mush dog. These goals may sound way too easy, but let me assure you, if I can manage to achieve these goals, that's going to be a big one in the win column for me. We'll see how it goes.
And now, my last goal? In bed before midnight. And that hasn't happened in over a week. I think it's a bit overdue. So I'm off to find my book and a furry, purring foot-warmer.
Goodnight Internets. Stay warm.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Winter Weary
OK. I'll say it. I've had enough of winter.
Just thinking that sentence makes me a traitor to my state. People love winter here. They go skiing! And...skiing! And sledding (small children or drunken co-eds required). They climb aboard snowmobiles and roar their way up and down the state. They sit on overturned buckets in the middle of a frozen lake and fish. If they're extra fancy, they build a little shack thing, push it out into the middle of the frozen lake, put their overturned bucket inside and fish. OK, really, I'm pretty sure they just drink. But the theory is they fish. For frozen fish sticks, I guess.
But I'm tired of winter. I feel like I've been cold since October. There was a snow day before the calendar officially even called this nonsense winter. This morning? Snowing again. Tonight? Snowing again. Tomorrow? Snowing again.
I guess I'm a big baby. Snow isn't THAT bad. Driving is doable if you're careful. It's pretty on the trees blah blah yada yada YEAH SURE. It is pretty. So is a picture. Driving is doable. So long as you don't get mown over by an illegally passing UPS truck. It's not THAT bad, depending on your definition of THAT. But let me tell you, it's pretty bad.
But like many things we don't prefer, it's a lot better to come to some sort of detente with the weather only penguins and polar bears could love. Winter allows us hot chocolate without justification, snuggling up with something (or someone) warm and cozy, and slick roads are the perfect excuse for staying home and staying in. Safety first.
So, North Winds blow, I guess. It's not like I'm going to stop you anyway. Just know that I have lots of sweaters, extra blankets, and two furball cats to sleep on my feet and keep me warm. But if you ever wanted to send along a January thaw for a day or two -- just to keep our hearts warm and our hopes alive -- well, I wouldn't mind one bit.
Just thinking that sentence makes me a traitor to my state. People love winter here. They go skiing! And...skiing! And sledding (small children or drunken co-eds required). They climb aboard snowmobiles and roar their way up and down the state. They sit on overturned buckets in the middle of a frozen lake and fish. If they're extra fancy, they build a little shack thing, push it out into the middle of the frozen lake, put their overturned bucket inside and fish. OK, really, I'm pretty sure they just drink. But the theory is they fish. For frozen fish sticks, I guess.
But I'm tired of winter. I feel like I've been cold since October. There was a snow day before the calendar officially even called this nonsense winter. This morning? Snowing again. Tonight? Snowing again. Tomorrow? Snowing again.
I guess I'm a big baby. Snow isn't THAT bad. Driving is doable if you're careful. It's pretty on the trees blah blah yada yada YEAH SURE. It is pretty. So is a picture. Driving is doable. So long as you don't get mown over by an illegally passing UPS truck. It's not THAT bad, depending on your definition of THAT. But let me tell you, it's pretty bad.
But like many things we don't prefer, it's a lot better to come to some sort of detente with the weather only penguins and polar bears could love. Winter allows us hot chocolate without justification, snuggling up with something (or someone) warm and cozy, and slick roads are the perfect excuse for staying home and staying in. Safety first.
So, North Winds blow, I guess. It's not like I'm going to stop you anyway. Just know that I have lots of sweaters, extra blankets, and two furball cats to sleep on my feet and keep me warm. But if you ever wanted to send along a January thaw for a day or two -- just to keep our hearts warm and our hopes alive -- well, I wouldn't mind one bit.
Winter Weary
OK. I'll say it. I've had enough of winter.
Just thinking that sentence makes me a traitor to my state. People love winter here. They go skiing! And...skiing! And sledding (small children or drunken co-eds required). They climb aboard snowmobiles and roar their way up and down the state. They sit on overturned buckets in the middle of a frozen lake and fish. If they're extra fancy, they build a little shack thing, push it out into the middle of the frozen lake, put their overturned bucket inside and fish. OK, really, I'm pretty sure they just drink. But the theory is they fish. For frozen fish sticks, I guess.
But I'm tired of winter. I feel like I've been cold since October. There was a snow day before the calendar officially even called this nonsense winter. This morning? Snowing again. Tonight? Snowing again. Tomorrow? Snowing again.
I guess I'm a big baby. Snow isn't THAT bad. Driving is doable if you're careful. It's pretty on the trees blah blah yada yada YEAH SURE. It is pretty. So is a picture. Driving is doable. So long as you don't get mown over by an illegally passing UPS truck. It's not THAT bad, depending on your definition of THAT. But let me tell you, it's pretty bad.
But like many things we don't prefer, it's a lot better to come to some sort of detente with the weather only penguins and polar bears could love. Winter allows us hot chocolate without justification, snuggling up with something (or someone) warm and cozy, and slick roads are the perfect excuse for staying home and staying in. Safety first.
So, North Winds blow, I guess. It's not like I'm going to stop you anyway. Just know that I have lots of sweaters, extra blankets, and two furball cats to sleep on my feet and keep me warm. But if you ever wanted to send along a January thaw for a day or two -- just to keep our hearts warm and our hopes alive -- well, I wouldn't mind one bit.
Just thinking that sentence makes me a traitor to my state. People love winter here. They go skiing! And...skiing! And sledding (small children or drunken co-eds required). They climb aboard snowmobiles and roar their way up and down the state. They sit on overturned buckets in the middle of a frozen lake and fish. If they're extra fancy, they build a little shack thing, push it out into the middle of the frozen lake, put their overturned bucket inside and fish. OK, really, I'm pretty sure they just drink. But the theory is they fish. For frozen fish sticks, I guess.
But I'm tired of winter. I feel like I've been cold since October. There was a snow day before the calendar officially even called this nonsense winter. This morning? Snowing again. Tonight? Snowing again. Tomorrow? Snowing again.
I guess I'm a big baby. Snow isn't THAT bad. Driving is doable if you're careful. It's pretty on the trees blah blah yada yada YEAH SURE. It is pretty. So is a picture. Driving is doable. So long as you don't get mown over by an illegally passing UPS truck. It's not THAT bad, depending on your definition of THAT. But let me tell you, it's pretty bad.
But like many things we don't prefer, it's a lot better to come to some sort of detente with the weather only penguins and polar bears could love. Winter allows us hot chocolate without justification, snuggling up with something (or someone) warm and cozy, and slick roads are the perfect excuse for staying home and staying in. Safety first.
So, North Winds blow, I guess. It's not like I'm going to stop you anyway. Just know that I have lots of sweaters, extra blankets, and two furball cats to sleep on my feet and keep me warm. But if you ever wanted to send along a January thaw for a day or two -- just to keep our hearts warm and our hopes alive -- well, I wouldn't mind one bit.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
Pass It On
Like most people who have an email account (or two, or three) I get A LOT of forwards. Now, I don't know how the rest of the world handles forwards, but most of mine undergo a fairly severe triage session, mainly based on the subject line. If it passes the subject line test, I'll open the email and see how many generations of forwards this email has endured. How do you tell? It's easy. You can count the carats (>) much like you'd count rings on a tree. The more carats, the more times it has been passed along, and the less likely you'll know the original sender. It's kind of like an opposite six degrees of Kevin Bacon game.
If the forwarded email passes the carat test, the next thing my twitchy finger of fate looks for is an abnormal number of pictures that are waaaaaaay slow to load. If the picturrrific email is a poky puppy, once I see one completed picture, I call, "Good Enough!" and send it on its merry way to deletesville. The same goes for animated graphics, anything with an overabundance of smiley faces or out of season humors. Pumpkins in August. Snowmen in April. Santa laying out at the beach. I don't want to see it in the grocery store and I don't want to see it in my inbasket. Peeps, on the other hand, get an unconditional year-round pass. Why? My inbox. My rules. I like Peeps.
All this may make me sound like a bit of a grumpy old curmudgeon, and I'm really not. I simply have to work really hard to keep my inbox manageable. You'd gasp if you heard what I consider "manageable" for an inbox, and I'm not going to tell you. Suffice it to say, it's a lot. Those who have an inbox of four emails (no more than three days old), nothing in their saved or sent file, nothing in the deleted file, and three new spam emails that arrived less than an hour ago are a little bit unnatural, in my book. Either that or they have no appreciation of the historical significance of a six-year old conversation that always begins with "It's been forever. What's the latest?"
Lately, though, something has happened. The forwards have been good. They have been thoughtful, encouraging and affirming. They have been so good, I've passed them on, which is something I rarely do. I got one today, with the subject line "This IS awesome, women." Now usually a subject line like that would never pass the sniff test, but for whatever reason, I went ahead and opened the email. It was riddled with exclamation points; another leading indicator that screams DELETE ME, but I didn't. The original sender (yes indeed, someone I've never heard of) told me I better have kleenex handy. I took one look at that ridiculous sentiment, snorted, and opened the YouTube file.
It was nice...cute...funny...powerful...and true.
I was OK until the last 65 seconds.
I also got a forward that was a powerpoint show. I often cringe at the cheezy music, hokey pictures and scrolling, wavy text graphics that drive me crazy. I usually make it through two or three slides before I bail. This was so good I saved it for myself. And then I sent it to others. And then I wrote down the text so I could remember it.
Now it could be that the quality of forwards has simply improved web-wide, but I doubt it. And it could be that I've lost my acerbic, cynical edge, but I doubt that too. But then again, maybe I am ready for some inspiration. Maybe my epiphany is the realization and acceptance that we all need each other. Sink or swim, we're all in this boat together, so we might as well acknowledge the fact that it works so much easier if we row together. The last few years have been long, discouraging, and plain old hard in so many ways. I'm ready for some good news. I'm ready for words that inspire and thoughts that challenge. If you have some, by all means, pass it on.
Thanks, Holidailies, for giving me a month share my little corner of the world and for giving me the opportunity to pass it on. See you all tomorrow.
If the forwarded email passes the carat test, the next thing my twitchy finger of fate looks for is an abnormal number of pictures that are waaaaaaay slow to load. If the picturrrific email is a poky puppy, once I see one completed picture, I call, "Good Enough!" and send it on its merry way to deletesville. The same goes for animated graphics, anything with an overabundance of smiley faces or out of season humors. Pumpkins in August. Snowmen in April. Santa laying out at the beach. I don't want to see it in the grocery store and I don't want to see it in my inbasket. Peeps, on the other hand, get an unconditional year-round pass. Why? My inbox. My rules. I like Peeps.
All this may make me sound like a bit of a grumpy old curmudgeon, and I'm really not. I simply have to work really hard to keep my inbox manageable. You'd gasp if you heard what I consider "manageable" for an inbox, and I'm not going to tell you. Suffice it to say, it's a lot. Those who have an inbox of four emails (no more than three days old), nothing in their saved or sent file, nothing in the deleted file, and three new spam emails that arrived less than an hour ago are a little bit unnatural, in my book. Either that or they have no appreciation of the historical significance of a six-year old conversation that always begins with "It's been forever. What's the latest?"
Lately, though, something has happened. The forwards have been good. They have been thoughtful, encouraging and affirming. They have been so good, I've passed them on, which is something I rarely do. I got one today, with the subject line "This IS awesome, women." Now usually a subject line like that would never pass the sniff test, but for whatever reason, I went ahead and opened the email. It was riddled with exclamation points; another leading indicator that screams DELETE ME, but I didn't. The original sender (yes indeed, someone I've never heard of) told me I better have kleenex handy. I took one look at that ridiculous sentiment, snorted, and opened the YouTube file.
It was nice...cute...funny...powerful...and true.
I was OK until the last 65 seconds.
I also got a forward that was a powerpoint show. I often cringe at the cheezy music, hokey pictures and scrolling, wavy text graphics that drive me crazy. I usually make it through two or three slides before I bail. This was so good I saved it for myself. And then I sent it to others. And then I wrote down the text so I could remember it.
Now it could be that the quality of forwards has simply improved web-wide, but I doubt it. And it could be that I've lost my acerbic, cynical edge, but I doubt that too. But then again, maybe I am ready for some inspiration. Maybe my epiphany is the realization and acceptance that we all need each other. Sink or swim, we're all in this boat together, so we might as well acknowledge the fact that it works so much easier if we row together. The last few years have been long, discouraging, and plain old hard in so many ways. I'm ready for some good news. I'm ready for words that inspire and thoughts that challenge. If you have some, by all means, pass it on.
Thanks, Holidailies, for giving me a month share my little corner of the world and for giving me the opportunity to pass it on. See you all tomorrow.
Pass It On
Like most people who have an email account (or two, or three) I get A LOT of forwards. Now, I don't know how the rest of the world handles forwards, but most of mine undergo a fairly severe triage session, mainly based on the subject line. If it passes the subject line test, I'll open the email and see how many generations of forwards this email has endured. How do you tell? It's easy. You can count the carats (>) much like you'd count rings on a tree. The more carats, the more times it has been passed along, and the less likely you'll know the original sender. It's kind of like an opposite six degrees of Kevin Bacon game.
If the forwarded email passes the carat test, the next thing my twitchy finger of fate looks for is an abnormal number of pictures that are waaaaaaay slow to load. If the picturrrific email is a poky puppy, once I see one completed picture, I call, "Good Enough!" and send it on its merry way to deletesville. The same goes for animated graphics, anything with an overabundance of smiley faces or out of season humors. Pumpkins in August. Snowmen in April. Santa laying out at the beach. I don't want to see it in the grocery store and I don't want to see it in my inbasket. Peeps, on the other hand, get an unconditional year-round pass. Why? My inbox. My rules. I like Peeps.
All this may make me sound like a bit of a grumpy old curmudgeon, and I'm really not. I simply have to work really hard to keep my inbox manageable. You'd gasp if you heard what I consider "manageable" for an inbox, and I'm not going to tell you. Suffice it to say, it's a lot. Those who have an inbox of four emails (no more than three days old), nothing in their saved or sent file, nothing in the deleted file, and three new spam emails that arrived less than an hour ago are a little bit unnatural, in my book. Either that or they have no appreciation of the historical significance of a six-year old conversation that always begins with "It's been forever. What's the latest?"
Lately, though, something has happened. The forwards have been good. They have been thoughtful, encouraging and affirming. They have been so good, I've passed them on, which is something I rarely do. I got one today, with the subject line "This IS awesome, women." Now usually a subject line like that would never pass the sniff test, but for whatever reason, I went ahead and opened the email. It was riddled with exclamation points; another leading indicator that screams DELETE ME, but I didn't. The original sender (yes indeed, someone I've never heard of) told me I better have kleenex handy. I took one look at that ridiculous sentiment, snorted, and opened the YouTube file.
It was nice...cute...funny...powerful...and true.
I was OK until the last 65 seconds.
I also got a forward that was a powerpoint show. I often cringe at the cheezy music, hokey pictures and scrolling, wavy text graphics that drive me crazy. I usually make it through two or three slides before I bail. This was so good I saved it for myself. And then I sent it to others. And then I wrote down the text so I could remember it.
Now it could be that the quality of forwards has simply improved web-wide, but I doubt it. And it could be that I've lost my acerbic, cynical edge, but I doubt that too. But then again, maybe I am ready for some inspiration. Maybe my epiphany is the realization and acceptance that we all need each other. Sink or swim, we're all in this boat together, so we might as well acknowledge the fact that it works so much easier if we row together. The last few years have been long, discouraging, and plain old hard in so many ways. I'm ready for some good news. I'm ready for words that inspire and thoughts that challenge. If you have some, by all means, pass it on.
Thanks, Holidailies, for giving me a month share my little corner of the world and for giving me the opportunity to pass it on. See you all tomorrow.
If the forwarded email passes the carat test, the next thing my twitchy finger of fate looks for is an abnormal number of pictures that are waaaaaaay slow to load. If the picturrrific email is a poky puppy, once I see one completed picture, I call, "Good Enough!" and send it on its merry way to deletesville. The same goes for animated graphics, anything with an overabundance of smiley faces or out of season humors. Pumpkins in August. Snowmen in April. Santa laying out at the beach. I don't want to see it in the grocery store and I don't want to see it in my inbasket. Peeps, on the other hand, get an unconditional year-round pass. Why? My inbox. My rules. I like Peeps.
All this may make me sound like a bit of a grumpy old curmudgeon, and I'm really not. I simply have to work really hard to keep my inbox manageable. You'd gasp if you heard what I consider "manageable" for an inbox, and I'm not going to tell you. Suffice it to say, it's a lot. Those who have an inbox of four emails (no more than three days old), nothing in their saved or sent file, nothing in the deleted file, and three new spam emails that arrived less than an hour ago are a little bit unnatural, in my book. Either that or they have no appreciation of the historical significance of a six-year old conversation that always begins with "It's been forever. What's the latest?"
Lately, though, something has happened. The forwards have been good. They have been thoughtful, encouraging and affirming. They have been so good, I've passed them on, which is something I rarely do. I got one today, with the subject line "This IS awesome, women." Now usually a subject line like that would never pass the sniff test, but for whatever reason, I went ahead and opened the email. It was riddled with exclamation points; another leading indicator that screams DELETE ME, but I didn't. The original sender (yes indeed, someone I've never heard of) told me I better have kleenex handy. I took one look at that ridiculous sentiment, snorted, and opened the YouTube file.
It was nice...cute...funny...powerful...and true.
I was OK until the last 65 seconds.
I also got a forward that was a powerpoint show. I often cringe at the cheezy music, hokey pictures and scrolling, wavy text graphics that drive me crazy. I usually make it through two or three slides before I bail. This was so good I saved it for myself. And then I sent it to others. And then I wrote down the text so I could remember it.
Now it could be that the quality of forwards has simply improved web-wide, but I doubt it. And it could be that I've lost my acerbic, cynical edge, but I doubt that too. But then again, maybe I am ready for some inspiration. Maybe my epiphany is the realization and acceptance that we all need each other. Sink or swim, we're all in this boat together, so we might as well acknowledge the fact that it works so much easier if we row together. The last few years have been long, discouraging, and plain old hard in so many ways. I'm ready for some good news. I'm ready for words that inspire and thoughts that challenge. If you have some, by all means, pass it on.
Thanks, Holidailies, for giving me a month share my little corner of the world and for giving me the opportunity to pass it on. See you all tomorrow.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Same Song, Second Verse
Oh my, it was hard getting back into the swing of things. Knowing that I had to get up and get moving on time in the middle of the night (5:15am) meant I slept horribly because I was checking the clock every 20 minutes, afraid that I had missed reveille. Turns out I didn't miss the alarm -- I was up on time and we left on time and made it to school on time -- but the end result was the hours of sleep I got last night were countable on the fingers of one hand (if you were missing a few fingers. And your thumb)
Tomorrow will be the first foray north for winter semester teaching. I expect it to be a short day, which helps with the whole "reentry" aspect of the month of January. Overall, it's going to be a fairly busy month, which means it will be necessary to get organized and do it in a timely fashion (two skills I am decidedly lacking).
So, before I nod off only to wake and discover my forehead imprinted with QWERTY in the morning, I bid the Internets goodnight.
Tomorrow will be the first foray north for winter semester teaching. I expect it to be a short day, which helps with the whole "reentry" aspect of the month of January. Overall, it's going to be a fairly busy month, which means it will be necessary to get organized and do it in a timely fashion (two skills I am decidedly lacking).
So, before I nod off only to wake and discover my forehead imprinted with QWERTY in the morning, I bid the Internets goodnight.
Same Song, Second Verse
Oh my, it was hard getting back into the swing of things. Knowing that I had to get up and get moving on time in the middle of the night (5:15am) meant I slept horribly because I was checking the clock every 20 minutes, afraid that I had missed reveille. Turns out I didn't miss the alarm -- I was up on time and we left on time and made it to school on time -- but the end result was the hours of sleep I got last night were countable on the fingers of one hand (if you were missing a few fingers. And your thumb)
Tomorrow will be the first foray north for winter semester teaching. I expect it to be a short day, which helps with the whole "reentry" aspect of the month of January. Overall, it's going to be a fairly busy month, which means it will be necessary to get organized and do it in a timely fashion (two skills I am decidedly lacking).
So, before I nod off only to wake and discover my forehead imprinted with QWERTY in the morning, I bid the Internets goodnight.
Tomorrow will be the first foray north for winter semester teaching. I expect it to be a short day, which helps with the whole "reentry" aspect of the month of January. Overall, it's going to be a fairly busy month, which means it will be necessary to get organized and do it in a timely fashion (two skills I am decidedly lacking).
So, before I nod off only to wake and discover my forehead imprinted with QWERTY in the morning, I bid the Internets goodnight.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
What Next?
I often wonder what might have been going through her mind, and by "her" I mean Mary, the leading lady of the Christmas story.
The only real monologue we get from Mary is right after the Annunciation (which, of course, was plenty reason enough), but even with that lovely paragraph of text, it ends rather abruptly with the somewhat mysterious sentence "and she pondered all these things in her heart." After that episode, we hear very little about what Mary thought. And that, I think, is too bad.
I have to imagine that she would have had plenty to say about being VERY pregnant and having to travel all over Bethlehem's half acre due to governmental bureaucracy. Heck, I whine for days on end when I can't put off my half-hour appointment with Turbo Tax any longer. And to have to do it on a donkey? Pregnant or not, it would not be my preference...ever. But we never really hear what she thought about it. Was she still magnifying the Lord? Was she still feeling blessed? Or as she rode mile after uncomfortable mile, was she wondering, "Oh my Lord....what NEXT?"
She didn't know at the time that the next part of the story was giving birth out back with the animals. She didn't know her baby would be laid in a bed of straw. If she knew what was coming next, she might have told Joseph, "turn that damn donkey around and take me home." Maybe she said it anyway. Maybe not. But even if she didn't, I have to believe that she didn't sit there empty-minded gazing at the scenery. I think her mind would have been churning with that somewhat worried, persistantly nagging question, "what next?"
"What next?" ended up being an unexpected visit by shepherds. Classical artists depict this scene in a very peaceful, pastoral and holy setting. Sacred light shines from within the manager. Animals stand in quiet reverence, and shepherds kneel nearby in quiet adoration. But if you think about it realistically, you just HAVE to ask. Really? Do you think so? I bet shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields tend to....smell like shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields. So these stinky strangers just show up unannounced and start talking about angels and a star and then they kneel in front of her baby. Did Mary just sit by and blithely smile? I hope not. I hope she asked who on earth these people were and why they decided to show up. I hope she wondered both incredulously and nervously, "what next?"
Can you imagine if she would have known? Because next was kings and camels and carols written in 6/8 time. What next were gifts not found on your basic Bethlehem registry. And after that came dreams and warnings of danger, and moving the family to safety time and time again. This was not a typical "day in the life" by any stretch of the imagination.
But I hope for her sake that she wondered. I hope for her sake she questioned. I hope for her sake she wondered and worried and cried and prayed about what the next day might bring. Sure, pondering things in your heart is beautiful and poetic and holy. But wondering and worrying about what tomorrow will bring, and praying for the strength and guidance and grace to make it through whatever "what next" brings is not only realistic, it's human.
And that, in a word, was Mary.
The only real monologue we get from Mary is right after the Annunciation (which, of course, was plenty reason enough), but even with that lovely paragraph of text, it ends rather abruptly with the somewhat mysterious sentence "and she pondered all these things in her heart." After that episode, we hear very little about what Mary thought. And that, I think, is too bad.
I have to imagine that she would have had plenty to say about being VERY pregnant and having to travel all over Bethlehem's half acre due to governmental bureaucracy. Heck, I whine for days on end when I can't put off my half-hour appointment with Turbo Tax any longer. And to have to do it on a donkey? Pregnant or not, it would not be my preference...ever. But we never really hear what she thought about it. Was she still magnifying the Lord? Was she still feeling blessed? Or as she rode mile after uncomfortable mile, was she wondering, "Oh my Lord....what NEXT?"
She didn't know at the time that the next part of the story was giving birth out back with the animals. She didn't know her baby would be laid in a bed of straw. If she knew what was coming next, she might have told Joseph, "turn that damn donkey around and take me home." Maybe she said it anyway. Maybe not. But even if she didn't, I have to believe that she didn't sit there empty-minded gazing at the scenery. I think her mind would have been churning with that somewhat worried, persistantly nagging question, "what next?"
"What next?" ended up being an unexpected visit by shepherds. Classical artists depict this scene in a very peaceful, pastoral and holy setting. Sacred light shines from within the manager. Animals stand in quiet reverence, and shepherds kneel nearby in quiet adoration. But if you think about it realistically, you just HAVE to ask. Really? Do you think so? I bet shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields tend to....smell like shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields. So these stinky strangers just show up unannounced and start talking about angels and a star and then they kneel in front of her baby. Did Mary just sit by and blithely smile? I hope not. I hope she asked who on earth these people were and why they decided to show up. I hope she wondered both incredulously and nervously, "what next?"
Can you imagine if she would have known? Because next was kings and camels and carols written in 6/8 time. What next were gifts not found on your basic Bethlehem registry. And after that came dreams and warnings of danger, and moving the family to safety time and time again. This was not a typical "day in the life" by any stretch of the imagination.
But I hope for her sake that she wondered. I hope for her sake she questioned. I hope for her sake she wondered and worried and cried and prayed about what the next day might bring. Sure, pondering things in your heart is beautiful and poetic and holy. But wondering and worrying about what tomorrow will bring, and praying for the strength and guidance and grace to make it through whatever "what next" brings is not only realistic, it's human.
And that, in a word, was Mary.
What Next?
I often wonder what might have been going through her mind, and by "her" I mean Mary, the leading lady of the Christmas story.
The only real monologue we get from Mary is right after the Annunciation (which, of course, was plenty reason enough), but even with that lovely paragraph of text, it ends rather abruptly with the somewhat mysterious sentence "and she pondered all these things in her heart." After that episode, we hear very little about what Mary thought. And that, I think, is too bad.
I have to imagine that she would have had plenty to say about being VERY pregnant and having to travel all over Bethlehem's half acre due to governmental bureaucracy. Heck, I whine for days on end when I can't put off my half-hour appointment with Turbo Tax any longer. And to have to do it on a donkey? Pregnant or not, it would not be my preference...ever. But we never really hear what she thought about it. Was she still magnifying the Lord? Was she still feeling blessed? Or as she rode mile after uncomfortable mile, was she wondering, "Oh my Lord....what NEXT?"
She didn't know at the time that the next part of the story was giving birth out back with the animals. She didn't know her baby would be laid in a bed of straw. If she knew what was coming next, she might have told Joseph, "turn that damn donkey around and take me home." Maybe she said it anyway. Maybe not. But even if she didn't, I have to believe that she didn't sit there empty-minded gazing at the scenery. I think her mind would have been churning with that somewhat worried, persistantly nagging question, "what next?"
"What next?" ended up being an unexpected visit by shepherds. Classical artists depict this scene in a very peaceful, pastoral and holy setting. Sacred light shines from within the manager. Animals stand in quiet reverence, and shepherds kneel nearby in quiet adoration. But if you think about it realistically, you just HAVE to ask. Really? Do you think so? I bet shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields tend to....smell like shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields. So these stinky strangers just show up unannounced and start talking about angels and a star and then they kneel in front of her baby. Did Mary just sit by and blithely smile? I hope not. I hope she asked who on earth these people were and why they decided to show up. I hope she wondered both incredulously and nervously, "what next?"
Can you imagine if she would have known? Because next was kings and camels and carols written in 6/8 time. What next were gifts not found on your basic Bethlehem registry. And after that came dreams and warnings of danger, and moving the family to safety time and time again. This was not a typical "day in the life" by any stretch of the imagination.
But I hope for her sake that she wondered. I hope for her sake she questioned. I hope for her sake she wondered and worried and cried and prayed about what the next day might bring. Sure, pondering things in your heart is beautiful and poetic and holy. But wondering and worrying about what tomorrow will bring, and praying for the strength and guidance and grace to make it through whatever "what next" brings is not only realistic, it's human.
And that, in a word, was Mary.
The only real monologue we get from Mary is right after the Annunciation (which, of course, was plenty reason enough), but even with that lovely paragraph of text, it ends rather abruptly with the somewhat mysterious sentence "and she pondered all these things in her heart." After that episode, we hear very little about what Mary thought. And that, I think, is too bad.
I have to imagine that she would have had plenty to say about being VERY pregnant and having to travel all over Bethlehem's half acre due to governmental bureaucracy. Heck, I whine for days on end when I can't put off my half-hour appointment with Turbo Tax any longer. And to have to do it on a donkey? Pregnant or not, it would not be my preference...ever. But we never really hear what she thought about it. Was she still magnifying the Lord? Was she still feeling blessed? Or as she rode mile after uncomfortable mile, was she wondering, "Oh my Lord....what NEXT?"
She didn't know at the time that the next part of the story was giving birth out back with the animals. She didn't know her baby would be laid in a bed of straw. If she knew what was coming next, she might have told Joseph, "turn that damn donkey around and take me home." Maybe she said it anyway. Maybe not. But even if she didn't, I have to believe that she didn't sit there empty-minded gazing at the scenery. I think her mind would have been churning with that somewhat worried, persistantly nagging question, "what next?"
"What next?" ended up being an unexpected visit by shepherds. Classical artists depict this scene in a very peaceful, pastoral and holy setting. Sacred light shines from within the manager. Animals stand in quiet reverence, and shepherds kneel nearby in quiet adoration. But if you think about it realistically, you just HAVE to ask. Really? Do you think so? I bet shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields tend to....smell like shepherds who have been out working for hours in the fields. So these stinky strangers just show up unannounced and start talking about angels and a star and then they kneel in front of her baby. Did Mary just sit by and blithely smile? I hope not. I hope she asked who on earth these people were and why they decided to show up. I hope she wondered both incredulously and nervously, "what next?"
Can you imagine if she would have known? Because next was kings and camels and carols written in 6/8 time. What next were gifts not found on your basic Bethlehem registry. And after that came dreams and warnings of danger, and moving the family to safety time and time again. This was not a typical "day in the life" by any stretch of the imagination.
But I hope for her sake that she wondered. I hope for her sake she questioned. I hope for her sake she wondered and worried and cried and prayed about what the next day might bring. Sure, pondering things in your heart is beautiful and poetic and holy. But wondering and worrying about what tomorrow will bring, and praying for the strength and guidance and grace to make it through whatever "what next" brings is not only realistic, it's human.
And that, in a word, was Mary.
Saturday, January 03, 2009
Ten Fingers Flying
I've been somewhat hesitant to admit to the Internets that this Christmas I got TeenTuna a cellphone. It wasn't a surprise by any means. We had had discussion after discussion about cell phones. She knew I was unmoved by the "but even 3rd graders have one!" argument. I knew her nods were merely polite head-bobs and were in no way a signal of agreement when when I launched into my "phones are tools not toys" lecture. We constantly discussed the fine difference between needs and wants. But because her high school isn't close by and her schedule is becoming increasingly insane, I thought it was time to have that tool at her disposal. After many discussions about what she could and could not, and should and should not do with the phone,
we went together to look.
FYI: All of humanity goes to look at cellphones seven days before Christmas. I don't particularly recommend it.
We looked around the store and she instantly went for fancy, fancy and fancier. I walked behind her shooting down phone after phone, AKA ruining her life. Too expensive. Too fragile. It's a tool, it doesn't need to make you coffee. After showing her several options, she finally looked at one and said, "Well, I guess I could live with this one...."
I looked at her, managed not to blow my top in the middle of the store, and said, "Well, considering this is a gift, and a very generous gift at that, if the best we can find is something you could LIVE with...then we're just not ready to get a phone." And with that -- much to her extreme surprise and chagrin -- we left.
It's amazing what 24 hours will do. The next day the song had suddenly changed from "I guess I could live with this one" to "I would really like that phone." Success. So, back we went. We found the same salesman, explained that yes, we were ready to make our selection, and he told her what a great choice it was. She was very excited, and as much as I was pleased that she really did make a good choice, I gave her a hug and said, "You aren't any more special now than you were yesterday, and I love you just the same. No more. No less." Mean mom? Not really. We had talked about this very concept several times previously.
Her cousin also got a phone over the holidays. I was gratified to hear that my older brother was as mean of a parent as I was, and had gone so far as to draw up a contract with my neice. I had done much the same with TeenTuna, minus the paperwork formalities. This weekend we got the first bill, and I made her sit down with me and go over it. Unsurprisingly, she had a whopping 3 minutes in phone calls. Why? They don't TALK on the phone. My child hates TALKING on the phone. She will only make a call if she has no other options. No, her phone is used to text. K? LOL. G2G. BBL. BIBI. Barf. On Christmas day the two of them were multitasking princesses, simultaneously playing on the Wii with one hand, and reading text messages with the other. The ambidextrous thumb work alone was impressive.
Last weekend we were in the parking lot at Target. The weather was horrible and there were a lot of cars everywhere because it was the day after Christmas. We passed a dad and four kids walking towards the store. Every kid had a cellphone out and at the ready, and all four of them were walking with the heads down, thumbs flying, paying zero attention to anything else. The dad said, "Hey, do you think you could stop texting while we're in the parking lot so you could, you know, look out for cars and not get run over?" I gave TeenTuna a big elbow nudge and said, "SEE? SEE? SEE?" Even she was appalled. Huzzah!
Already she has eased up on the whole opening it up every 15 seconds to see if someone has sent her a text. She has even turned it off without argument when I ask her to do so. No phones at dinner. No phones at rehearsal. No phones at the movies. Mean mom? I hope so. But I always back it up with a reason why. That's my responsibility in this age of electronics. Teach them the hows, whens and whys of when it is and isn't appropriate, and let them have the responsibility to show you they understand. Even 3rd graders can do that!
we went together to look.
FYI: All of humanity goes to look at cellphones seven days before Christmas. I don't particularly recommend it.
We looked around the store and she instantly went for fancy, fancy and fancier. I walked behind her shooting down phone after phone, AKA ruining her life. Too expensive. Too fragile. It's a tool, it doesn't need to make you coffee. After showing her several options, she finally looked at one and said, "Well, I guess I could live with this one...."
I looked at her, managed not to blow my top in the middle of the store, and said, "Well, considering this is a gift, and a very generous gift at that, if the best we can find is something you could LIVE with...then we're just not ready to get a phone." And with that -- much to her extreme surprise and chagrin -- we left.
It's amazing what 24 hours will do. The next day the song had suddenly changed from "I guess I could live with this one" to "I would really like that phone." Success. So, back we went. We found the same salesman, explained that yes, we were ready to make our selection, and he told her what a great choice it was. She was very excited, and as much as I was pleased that she really did make a good choice, I gave her a hug and said, "You aren't any more special now than you were yesterday, and I love you just the same. No more. No less." Mean mom? Not really. We had talked about this very concept several times previously.
Her cousin also got a phone over the holidays. I was gratified to hear that my older brother was as mean of a parent as I was, and had gone so far as to draw up a contract with my neice. I had done much the same with TeenTuna, minus the paperwork formalities. This weekend we got the first bill, and I made her sit down with me and go over it. Unsurprisingly, she had a whopping 3 minutes in phone calls. Why? They don't TALK on the phone. My child hates TALKING on the phone. She will only make a call if she has no other options. No, her phone is used to text. K? LOL. G2G. BBL. BIBI. Barf. On Christmas day the two of them were multitasking princesses, simultaneously playing on the Wii with one hand, and reading text messages with the other. The ambidextrous thumb work alone was impressive.
Last weekend we were in the parking lot at Target. The weather was horrible and there were a lot of cars everywhere because it was the day after Christmas. We passed a dad and four kids walking towards the store. Every kid had a cellphone out and at the ready, and all four of them were walking with the heads down, thumbs flying, paying zero attention to anything else. The dad said, "Hey, do you think you could stop texting while we're in the parking lot so you could, you know, look out for cars and not get run over?" I gave TeenTuna a big elbow nudge and said, "SEE? SEE? SEE?" Even she was appalled. Huzzah!
Already she has eased up on the whole opening it up every 15 seconds to see if someone has sent her a text. She has even turned it off without argument when I ask her to do so. No phones at dinner. No phones at rehearsal. No phones at the movies. Mean mom? I hope so. But I always back it up with a reason why. That's my responsibility in this age of electronics. Teach them the hows, whens and whys of when it is and isn't appropriate, and let them have the responsibility to show you they understand. Even 3rd graders can do that!
Ten Fingers Flying
I've been somewhat hesitant to admit to the Internets that this Christmas I got TeenTuna a cellphone. It wasn't a surprise by any means. We had had discussion after discussion about cell phones. She knew I was unmoved by the "but even 3rd graders have one!" argument. I knew her nods were merely polite head-bobs and were in no way a signal of agreement when when I launched into my "phones are tools not toys" lecture. We constantly discussed the fine difference between needs and wants. But because her high school isn't close by and her schedule is becoming increasingly insane, I thought it was time to have that tool at her disposal. After many discussions about what she could and could not, and should and should not do with the phone,
we went together to look.
FYI: All of humanity goes to look at cellphones seven days before Christmas. I don't particularly recommend it.
We looked around the store and she instantly went for fancy, fancy and fancier. I walked behind her shooting down phone after phone, AKA ruining her life. Too expensive. Too fragile. It's a tool, it doesn't need to make you coffee. After showing her several options, she finally looked at one and said, "Well, I guess I could live with this one...."
I looked at her, managed not to blow my top in the middle of the store, and said, "Well, considering this is a gift, and a very generous gift at that, if the best we can find is something you could LIVE with...then we're just not ready to get a phone." And with that -- much to her extreme surprise and chagrin -- we left.
It's amazing what 24 hours will do. The next day the song had suddenly changed from "I guess I could live with this one" to "I would really like that phone." Success. So, back we went. We found the same salesman, explained that yes, we were ready to make our selection, and he told her what a great choice it was. She was very excited, and as much as I was pleased that she really did make a good choice, I gave her a hug and said, "You aren't any more special now than you were yesterday, and I love you just the same. No more. No less." Mean mom? Not really. We had talked about this very concept several times previously.
Her cousin also got a phone over the holidays. I was gratified to hear that my older brother was as mean of a parent as I was, and had gone so far as to draw up a contract with my neice. I had done much the same with TeenTuna, minus the paperwork formalities. This weekend we got the first bill, and I made her sit down with me and go over it. Unsurprisingly, she had a whopping 3 minutes in phone calls. Why? They don't TALK on the phone. My child hates TALKING on the phone. She will only make a call if she has no other options. No, her phone is used to text. K? LOL. G2G. BBL. BIBI. Barf. On Christmas day the two of them were multitasking princesses, simultaneously playing on the Wii with one hand, and reading text messages with the other. The ambidextrous thumb work alone was impressive.
Last weekend we were in the parking lot at Target. The weather was horrible and there were a lot of cars everywhere because it was the day after Christmas. We passed a dad and four kids walking towards the store. Every kid had a cellphone out and at the ready, and all four of them were walking with the heads down, thumbs flying, paying zero attention to anything else. The dad said, "Hey, do you think you could stop texting while we're in the parking lot so you could, you know, look out for cars and not get run over?" I gave TeenTuna a big elbow nudge and said, "SEE? SEE? SEE?" Even she was appalled. Huzzah!
Already she has eased up on the whole opening it up every 15 seconds to see if someone has sent her a text. She has even turned it off without argument when I ask her to do so. No phones at dinner. No phones at rehearsal. No phones at the movies. Mean mom? I hope so. But I always back it up with a reason why. That's my responsibility in this age of electronics. Teach them the hows, whens and whys of when it is and isn't appropriate, and let them have the responsibility to show you they understand. Even 3rd graders can do that!
we went together to look.
FYI: All of humanity goes to look at cellphones seven days before Christmas. I don't particularly recommend it.
We looked around the store and she instantly went for fancy, fancy and fancier. I walked behind her shooting down phone after phone, AKA ruining her life. Too expensive. Too fragile. It's a tool, it doesn't need to make you coffee. After showing her several options, she finally looked at one and said, "Well, I guess I could live with this one...."
I looked at her, managed not to blow my top in the middle of the store, and said, "Well, considering this is a gift, and a very generous gift at that, if the best we can find is something you could LIVE with...then we're just not ready to get a phone." And with that -- much to her extreme surprise and chagrin -- we left.
It's amazing what 24 hours will do. The next day the song had suddenly changed from "I guess I could live with this one" to "I would really like that phone." Success. So, back we went. We found the same salesman, explained that yes, we were ready to make our selection, and he told her what a great choice it was. She was very excited, and as much as I was pleased that she really did make a good choice, I gave her a hug and said, "You aren't any more special now than you were yesterday, and I love you just the same. No more. No less." Mean mom? Not really. We had talked about this very concept several times previously.
Her cousin also got a phone over the holidays. I was gratified to hear that my older brother was as mean of a parent as I was, and had gone so far as to draw up a contract with my neice. I had done much the same with TeenTuna, minus the paperwork formalities. This weekend we got the first bill, and I made her sit down with me and go over it. Unsurprisingly, she had a whopping 3 minutes in phone calls. Why? They don't TALK on the phone. My child hates TALKING on the phone. She will only make a call if she has no other options. No, her phone is used to text. K? LOL. G2G. BBL. BIBI. Barf. On Christmas day the two of them were multitasking princesses, simultaneously playing on the Wii with one hand, and reading text messages with the other. The ambidextrous thumb work alone was impressive.
Last weekend we were in the parking lot at Target. The weather was horrible and there were a lot of cars everywhere because it was the day after Christmas. We passed a dad and four kids walking towards the store. Every kid had a cellphone out and at the ready, and all four of them were walking with the heads down, thumbs flying, paying zero attention to anything else. The dad said, "Hey, do you think you could stop texting while we're in the parking lot so you could, you know, look out for cars and not get run over?" I gave TeenTuna a big elbow nudge and said, "SEE? SEE? SEE?" Even she was appalled. Huzzah!
Already she has eased up on the whole opening it up every 15 seconds to see if someone has sent her a text. She has even turned it off without argument when I ask her to do so. No phones at dinner. No phones at rehearsal. No phones at the movies. Mean mom? I hope so. But I always back it up with a reason why. That's my responsibility in this age of electronics. Teach them the hows, whens and whys of when it is and isn't appropriate, and let them have the responsibility to show you they understand. Even 3rd graders can do that!
Friday, January 02, 2009
Gifts to Share
This year my extended family decided -- as I'm sure many others did as well -- to cut back on the Christmas presents. We didn't give them up entirely, but agreed to give everyone a little something, but to scale it way, way back. Which we did.
Nobody conferred this year about the gifts that were purchased, and the annual issuing of the holiday wish list all but disappeared for the adults. So, with no list, no guidance, and no suggestions other than a strong family agreement that we were to do "just a little something for the adults" by far the gift that we gave and got this year was none other than the lowly book.
I found it interesting that the near-unanimous gift choice for a drastically scaled down Christmas needed no batteries and came with no instructions. It was just a book; something to hold in your hand and curl up with on a cold winter's night. And not junky books, either. Good books. Best-sellers. Independent titles. Humorous books. Thoughtful books. Puzzle books. Exciting books. Historical books. Yummy books. And as all these books were given, they were accompanied by the loving, wistful and hopeful comment, "I hope you like it...and...I'd like to borrow it when you're finished." Among my Christmas stash are works by Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, a book on the complete history of Sesame Street, two cookbooks and a book of ghost stories and tales from Ocracoke Island in North Carolina. My toughest decision is what to dive into first, although I've already thumbed through the cookbooks a couple times already.
It might be a coincidence that we all decided to give each other the same thing, but what I think is more amazing is the fact that when faced with a buy less, spend less Christmas, what each of us decided was most important was making sure everybody had something new to read...and something new to share when they were finished.
Nobody conferred this year about the gifts that were purchased, and the annual issuing of the holiday wish list all but disappeared for the adults. So, with no list, no guidance, and no suggestions other than a strong family agreement that we were to do "just a little something for the adults" by far the gift that we gave and got this year was none other than the lowly book.
I found it interesting that the near-unanimous gift choice for a drastically scaled down Christmas needed no batteries and came with no instructions. It was just a book; something to hold in your hand and curl up with on a cold winter's night. And not junky books, either. Good books. Best-sellers. Independent titles. Humorous books. Thoughtful books. Puzzle books. Exciting books. Historical books. Yummy books. And as all these books were given, they were accompanied by the loving, wistful and hopeful comment, "I hope you like it...and...I'd like to borrow it when you're finished." Among my Christmas stash are works by Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, a book on the complete history of Sesame Street, two cookbooks and a book of ghost stories and tales from Ocracoke Island in North Carolina. My toughest decision is what to dive into first, although I've already thumbed through the cookbooks a couple times already.
It might be a coincidence that we all decided to give each other the same thing, but what I think is more amazing is the fact that when faced with a buy less, spend less Christmas, what each of us decided was most important was making sure everybody had something new to read...and something new to share when they were finished.
Gifts to Share
This year my extended family decided -- as I'm sure many others did as well -- to cut back on the Christmas presents. We didn't give them up entirely, but agreed to give everyone a little something, but to scale it way, way back. Which we did.
Nobody conferred this year about the gifts that were purchased, and the annual issuing of the holiday wish list all but disappeared for the adults. So, with no list, no guidance, and no suggestions other than a strong family agreement that we were to do "just a little something for the adults" by far the gift that we gave and got this year was none other than the lowly book.
I found it interesting that the near-unanimous gift choice for a drastically scaled down Christmas needed no batteries and came with no instructions. It was just a book; something to hold in your hand and curl up with on a cold winter's night. And not junky books, either. Good books. Best-sellers. Independent titles. Humorous books. Thoughtful books. Puzzle books. Exciting books. Historical books. Yummy books. And as all these books were given, they were accompanied by the loving, wistful and hopeful comment, "I hope you like it...and...I'd like to borrow it when you're finished." Among my Christmas stash are works by Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, a book on the complete history of Sesame Street, two cookbooks and a book of ghost stories and tales from Ocracoke Island in North Carolina. My toughest decision is what to dive into first, although I've already thumbed through the cookbooks a couple times already.
It might be a coincidence that we all decided to give each other the same thing, but what I think is more amazing is the fact that when faced with a buy less, spend less Christmas, what each of us decided was most important was making sure everybody had something new to read...and something new to share when they were finished.
Nobody conferred this year about the gifts that were purchased, and the annual issuing of the holiday wish list all but disappeared for the adults. So, with no list, no guidance, and no suggestions other than a strong family agreement that we were to do "just a little something for the adults" by far the gift that we gave and got this year was none other than the lowly book.
I found it interesting that the near-unanimous gift choice for a drastically scaled down Christmas needed no batteries and came with no instructions. It was just a book; something to hold in your hand and curl up with on a cold winter's night. And not junky books, either. Good books. Best-sellers. Independent titles. Humorous books. Thoughtful books. Puzzle books. Exciting books. Historical books. Yummy books. And as all these books were given, they were accompanied by the loving, wistful and hopeful comment, "I hope you like it...and...I'd like to borrow it when you're finished." Among my Christmas stash are works by Toni Morrison and Maya Angelou, a book on the complete history of Sesame Street, two cookbooks and a book of ghost stories and tales from Ocracoke Island in North Carolina. My toughest decision is what to dive into first, although I've already thumbed through the cookbooks a couple times already.
It might be a coincidence that we all decided to give each other the same thing, but what I think is more amazing is the fact that when faced with a buy less, spend less Christmas, what each of us decided was most important was making sure everybody had something new to read...and something new to share when they were finished.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
A New Twist on an Old Favorite
On the 8th day of Christmas GreenTuna gave to me: A new refrigerator.
Those swans and geese and calling birds and french hens and turtle doves better watch out. This sucker cost me five golden rings and then some. I plan to have a nicely chilled partridge and pear treat on Saturday afternoon. Maybe I'll invite some drummers and pipers and dancers and leapers (as opposed to lepers, I suppose) over for a taste.
Coolio.
Those swans and geese and calling birds and french hens and turtle doves better watch out. This sucker cost me five golden rings and then some. I plan to have a nicely chilled partridge and pear treat on Saturday afternoon. Maybe I'll invite some drummers and pipers and dancers and leapers (as opposed to lepers, I suppose) over for a taste.
Coolio.
A New Twist on an Old Favorite
On the 8th day of Christmas GreenTuna gave to me: A new refrigerator.
Those swans and geese and calling birds and french hens and turtle doves better watch out. This sucker cost me five golden rings and then some. I plan to have a nicely chilled partridge and pear treat on Saturday afternoon. Maybe I'll invite some drummers and pipers and dancers and leapers (as opposed to lepers, I suppose) over for a taste.
Coolio.
Those swans and geese and calling birds and french hens and turtle doves better watch out. This sucker cost me five golden rings and then some. I plan to have a nicely chilled partridge and pear treat on Saturday afternoon. Maybe I'll invite some drummers and pipers and dancers and leapers (as opposed to lepers, I suppose) over for a taste.
Coolio.
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