My Apologies to my Facebook Readers

Sorry folks, this is the only bone I can throw right now. I again realized that this blog's pulse/ox is rapidly dropping, so I thought I'd publish something here that was meant to go here a long time ago, but I treated my few Facebook "friends" to it instead while neglecting, you, my loyal and more diverse group of friends, fans, and freaks who return to this address or stumble upon it by sheer good fortune.

So here it is. Don't get your hopes up. It is indeed pure drivel. Yet exquisite, nevertheless:

TWENTY THINGS I WONDER ABOUT

1. Why do people say "literally" when they don't mean it? Don't they know what "literally" means? "He was so mad; he literally bit my head off." Oh really?

2. How can certain leg hairs escape my razor so many times that they grow up to an inch long before I notice them?

3. What is it about an elevator that causes people to avoid eye contact or conversation?

4. Who has the job of putting the one square of pork in the top of the pork 'n' beans can?

5. Why are some people so interested and upset to know that one consenting person's body part may be touching another consenting person's body part in private? And how many closeted gay people do they know and like?

6. Why do I wait for the gas pump to thank me before I go?

7. Why am I not someone else? Or am I?

8. Where did God come from? I just can't buy the "He was always there" answer. And as someone asked, why did he let a snake cause such grief?

9. How many Bed Bath & Beyond coupons are in my house and in my car? And why do I never bring one with me when I go there?

10. How many pairs of black shoes is it OK to have before it becomes a problem?

11. When I drive across a bridge, why am I always afraid that a little voice will tell me to drive off?

12. How and why do some moms home-school their children? Good for them, but I just can't even wrap my mind around it.

13. Why do I get constipated every time I go on vacation?

14. Will I ever understand daylight savings time? Do I need to?

15. Why do I buy stationery when I can never seem to write a thank you note?

16. Why does my cleaning lady always rearrange my nightstand and replace the novel I'm reading with my Bible?

17. Why do I sometimes have trouble distinguishing the dancers from the "stars"?

18. Why am I polite to telemarketers?

19. Why can I never find a pen when I need one? And why is my purse full of them when I don't?

20. Why does my snooze button give me nine minutes? Why not a more even number like 10? Why not 30? If I set the alarm for 5:30, I might get up at 5:40, but 5:39, no way. At 5:39, I tell myself, "one more minute" but then two minutes go by and it's 5:41 and I don't think I can stare at the clock until 5:45, so I go for another 9 minutes. Then it's 5:50 and I know I have to get up right then because otherwise, I'll snooze till 5:59 and start the cycle all over again. Should I discuss this with my psychiatrist?

If any of you can give me some answers (even to the rhetorical ones), feel free to share. I may reject your answers as hogwash, but I will still take them under consideration--or at least let you think I did.

Waking up From Lost Time

Some epileptics have what's called "absence seizures" where they just sort of space out for a few seconds. Some people with mental illness suffer from bouts of "lost time." Some alcoholics have blackouts.

I recently discovered that I could very well be an epileptic mentally ill alcoholic. I haven't been diagnosed with any form of epilepsy, but I'm knocking real hard on the door of the other two.

I rarely know what the date is without looking at a calendar. Now, it's not at all uncommon for a perfectly sane person to be off by one day or so. But lately, I have not even been able to pin it down somewhere within a good seven to 10 day timeframe. I'm a little better at knowing what month it is, maybe because the month boxes on my "year-at-a-glance" wall calendar are good bit bigger than the day boxes. While I have trouble with dates, I do a little better with knowing what day it is, only because Tuesday is recycling day, Wednesday is American Idol, Thursday is The Office, and Friday is trash day. But bear in mind that this doesn't mean I will actually drop off the recycling on Tuesday, or have the trash out in time on Friday. I do know that the year is 2009, however.

Anyone who knows me is aware that I'm a slacker who cannot afford to be a slacker. I end up putting more effort into looking like I keep it all together rather than just keeping it all together in the first place. So I must not be a true slacker, seeing as how I actually care about keeping it all together. Real slackers don't give a shit about things like recycling day.

All this to say, I recently realized that a good month of my life has gone by without my attention or appreciation. Not that this hasn't happened several times before. It just seems that now, time is more valuable. It's that perspective you grow into the older you get.

When you're a child, you're on the floor with no sense of time and no horizon in sight. As a teenager, you're in the car with no sense of anything and no end in sight. In college, you can see the world from a 4th floor dorm room or from the roof of a fraternity house. It's all books and booze, love and lust, then probably just more booze and lust. Too busy living from one high to the other to notice the shrinking world below. Then comes career. Suddenly, you are supposed to act like a grown-up and take an elevator to a high-rise office or supervise young employees below you. Too busy working to hear the clock ticking minutes of your life away or to see the once endless sea of opportunity beginning to dry up. You settle into marriage and before you're ready (because no one ever is) along come the babies with all the crying and diapers and bottles and equipment. Sleepless, cranky, no-longer-just-a-couple parents hop on that roller coaster and stay on it until the last one starts school. With all the carseats and potty training and paraphernalia, you don't have much time to sit back and reflect on creating a new generation, much less on preparing to shift upward one day and take the place of your parents.

Now that my kids are a little older and for the most part, capable of bathing, feeding, and wiping themselves, I recently had the pleasure of stopping (just once for a fleeting moment) to take a breath and think. I see them looking up at me and I remember how my parents always seemed so tall. I see them looking up to me with wide eyes at a big world and I can only hope they'll see me as the smart, successful, and secure woman I sometimes so deftly can pretend to be.

The mirror and my aching bones are beginning to convince me that even though I may not think or act in accordance with some standard (of mysterious origin) as to how someone my age should think or act, I am nevertheless as young as I can possibly be at this very moment. Time flies when you're getting old, and I really don't want to lose any more of it. Not that I really missed anything over the past month or so. That I know of.

The only thing everyone on earth has in common is that we are all still alive. It's just that most are either too young to notice it or too busy to appreciate it. I'm now getting old enough to notice. I just wish I weren't always too busy to appreciate it, what with all my TV shows and household chores to keep up with.

43 on 4/3. Does that mean anything?

I think it means "Grow up and get real!"

I went to wake Katy up this morning and as I hugged her, her first words were: "Happy Birthday, Mama . . . 43." I'm always impressed by the way she is so on top of things. But this time, I could have done without her wise-ass grin.

I once wrote an essay called "37." Apparently that was some sort of milestone for me. Now I'm reminded that I'm still old enough to be a grandmother. Sure glad I'm not.

I'll never forget a conversation I had with some of the squadron wives when we were at Cannon Air Force Base about 10 years ago. Most of those women were about five to seven years younger than I was. One of them was lamenting her upcoming 29th birthday. In all of my sage wisdom, I replied, "Try 34."

I'm understanding now those middle-age crazies I heard about when I was a kid. I wouldn't necessarily refer to this "midlife" feeling as a "crisis," but it is this sort of second adolescence. Again, I feel uncomfortable in my body. Not so much awkward as unwieldy. When I was awkward, I knew I would eventually catch up with myself and get it. Now (in this unwieldy body that is out-of-sync with my brain), when I try to turn flips on a trampoline or roller skate too fast, for example, my body tells me that I've lost it (and not just mentally). My chiropractor says, "Jill, just because you can do it, doesn't mean you should."

Why am I so afraid of aging? A friend (who shall remain nameless lest he get more publicity than he deserves) posted this on my Facebook wall: "I sure hope you enjoy your birthday. You don't have that many left." Pretty funny, unless I end up dead soon. Then who will they suspect, huh?

First, I'll count my blessings about this aging shell my soul is stuck with. I don't have much of a gray hair problem seeing as how I just try to stay bleached blonde. Sure, those wiry grays tend to stand up and make themselves known, but I just weigh them down with some product or other, or pluck them if they don't behave. I don't really have any crows' feet around my eyes yet. At least not that I can see. I don't have saggy boobs, but only because they are too small to sag. So that gives the illusion that they are still somewhat perky. I'm not overweight, and cellulite has yet to replace every square inch of my thighs. So I still have all those things to look forward to.

Now, I may look healthy and in shape, but I can't even fold a basket of laundry without getting winded. My heart rate only rises to a calorie-burning level when I look at my bank account to see how much I pay for my unused gym membership every month. When I do go to the gym, I'm always afraid the buff youngsters parading themselves at the front desk can tell when my last visit was when they scan my membership tag. Then they scoff at me after seeing how old I am and think, "Oh, give it up lady," when really they probably don't give me another thought. Other than maybe, "Hmm, my mom was born in 1966, too."

And just yesterday afternoon as I sat in the sunlight (bad idea), I started noticing—for the first time—spider veins in my ankles and thinning skin on my already bony hands. I swear that these conditions arose right before my trifocal-wearing eyes. But the most troubling thing for me is my neck. If any of you got a copy of our family Christmas picture and still have it, look at my neck. I wish I had had the photographer airbrush some of that tree-trunk look out of it. Age often shows in the neck—especially on women who have had their faces all pinned up and stretched out and Restylaned and Botoxed. I haven't gone to that extreme, and I won't because I think looking naturally old is more attractive than looking freakishly pathetic. Who do they think they're fooling? And why? But my neck has really aged out of proportion to the rest of me. And it's long, so that just doubles the attention it gets. I guess I'll start wearing some smart-looking Talbot's turtlenecks and sassy scarves from Chico's. Remember ladies, sunscreen that neck. I must have neglected mine for years.

Anyway, all this to say: Vanity sucks. Sucks your spirit dry. Michael J. Fox recently said that vanity is the first thing to go. The first thing you gladly and even unknowingly toss out the window when you find yourself in a life or death situation. English writer Anthony Powell (whom I have never heard of before) said, "Self-love seems so often unrequited." How true. And French philosopher Henri Bergson (whom I had also never heard of) said, "The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that's laughable is vanity." I say: Vanity pretends to run deep but it's shallow. It can fill us up, but it's hollow.

I'm just glad to know that when the last drop of my incredible hotness is all gone, I'll still be able to rely on my vastly superior intelligence and unparalleled sense of humor to keep me in the spotlight. What a relief.

Happy Birthday Kate, Eight Days Late

Every January, I'm reminded of how old I'll be that year, because apparently, the first Super Bowl was in 1967—a year after I was born. Then, between February and March, I start noticing April expiration dates on things like my whole-wheat high-fiber English muffins and my light vanilla soy milk. But the most ominous annual sign of my impending AARP eligibility is when my friend Kate's birthday comes around every March 14. It always tells me that mine is (God willing) right around the corner in two weeks.

I've been trying to formulate a little birthday tribute to Kate without making it sound like a eulogy. This hasn't been easy. So as you read this, just keep in mind that she's not dead yet.

My very first memory of Kate is a random one, and it may not even be accurate as far as time and place, but regardless, it's what sticks in my head. I was sitting at my desk and Mrs. Glaze's 7th grade Texas history class. (I can't even remember whether Kate was in that class with me. I tend to think so.) We sat in those old-fashioned desks with the metal-footed box platforms and the particle board/faux woodgrain Formica veneer curved tops. Most were for right-handers, but there were always a few for the lefties. Anyway, I was leaning over to put my books under the desk when I saw her foot. She's tall, so of course her feet are not out of proportion, but it was the sandals (and not necessarily the size of them) that caught my eye. They were these gold strappy things that I had never seen before. I envied those sandals. For some reason, the brand name Bernardo sticks in my head. I don't think I've told her this. Probably because it sounds insane.

I can't remember exactly how we became such good friends, or exactly when it was. I do remember feeling so comfortable at her house, and with her family. I'm the oldest child in my family while she's the youngest in hers. I thought it was so cool that she had two older brothers and an older sister. I think they were a little protective of her and sometimes I somehow felt or wished a little bit of that rubbed off on me.

Spending nights at her house had some advantages and disadvantages. Sometimes I would end up sleeping on the floor because she had a water bed and would always flop in her sleep like a freshly-caught fish. I'd always wake up nauseous and wonder if I could find some Dramamine in their medicine cabinet. But then I would wonder how it might interact with whatever illegal drugs I may have taken earlier that night.

She used to collect heart-shaped boxes. To this day, I think of her when I see one and I'm tempted to buy it for her. But I don't, because I think that would be kind of gay.

As far as I know, she has never been able to write in cursive. She prints in capital letters. I've always wondered what a handwriting analyst would say about that.

She was always the honor student, while I felt like her goofy sidekick. Like she could wear one of those "I'm with stupid" T-shirts. When I went to law school before she did, I felt smarter for the first time. But that didn't last long. She followed in my footsteps, but she had smaller shoes to fill. I floated through law school on my daddy's dime, using the gas card he gave me to buy beer and overpriced convenience store groceries. She worked her ass off on school loans that took her years to pay off. I remember a time when she could barely pay her bills and couldn't even afford the stamp it took to mail a check. And this was back in the days when postage for one first-class letter was about 13 cents. (No, we're not really that old.)

When we were in college (or was it high school?) she drove this maroon convertible Fiat Spyder. I always felt so cool riding with her as she zoomed in and out of traffic like a guy would drive. And I was always so impressed that she knew how to drive a standard and step on the clutch and shift gears so smoothly. When I got my parents' 280ZX and had to learn how to drive it, Kate would just laugh at my total lack of coordination.

When I look back, I'm sure we were careful in our own way, but I still believe it's a miracle that we survived college together. We did a lot of stupid and dangerous things, any one of which could have landed us in the hospital, in rehab, in the grave, or even in a Mexican prison. Because we emerged virtually unscathed, I think we both figure the universe had some better plans for us. There are a million vaguely-remembered stories I could tell, but because Kate and I are both lawyers, not only will I plead the fifth for both her and myself, but I will also invoke a sort of mutual attorney-attorney privilege and refrain from sharing some of our very best material.

When I was 20, I had jaw surgery and lost about 10 pounds when I had my jaw wired shut. (I seem to recall that that's when my boyfriend Jimmy tried to break up with me. That's it. Wait till she has her jaw wired shut and can't talk. I remember writing him a nasty note with a red Sharpie on a yellow legal pad as I growled and groaned at him through my clenched pathetic face. He decided not to break up with me, and instead brought me a teddy bear to make up for his cruelty. I ended up dumping him later once I regained my ability to speak.) But I digress. Anyway, after losing that much weight, I was a somewhat emaciated 95 or so pounds. I think Kate was living in a duplex in Fort Worth at this time. We were getting ready to go out to some fraternity party, I think. That was back in the days when we spent hours "getting ready." Now that I'm older and really should spend more time on my appearance, I wish I could get some of those unnecessary hours back. Then again, it took a lot of time and hair products in those days to give me that Flock of Seagulls look I was always shooting for. Kate was trying to help me find something to wear that didn't make me look like the big-shoulder-pad-suited David Byrne in that Talking Heads video ("same as it ever was…"). No matter what I put on, I was swimming in it. I'll never forget seeing her flop down on her black and white couch laughing at me and saying, "This is like trying to dress a Q-tip." I can't remember what I wore that night, but it was probably black. So we went to this party at some fraternity house. We climbed some steep wooden stairs in this old house and probably proceeded to partake in some 200-proof Kool-Aid flavored beverages. For whatever reason (like maybe the restroom was so nasty, I decided it would be cleaner and more ladylike to go pee in the front yard) I attempted to descend the stairs. I got to the bottom in one step. My bony tumble must've made a good bit of noise, as I'm sure the stereo was blaring The Cure or maybe Psychedelic Furs. On cassette, of course. So a handful of the more alert partiers scrambled to the top of the stairs to see what had caused such a clatter. Kate, once she realized I was okay, laughed and said that it sounded like someone had thrown a chair down the steps.

We share an affinity for mocking the less intelligent. Just like with my friend Chris, I love it when I can exercise my superiority complex with someone who understands. She told me about this professor she had who was acting all smart and said something about someone having "an inkling or an inclination." We still laugh about that and use it at every opportunity.

And we always loved listening to Steve Martin. Especially Wild and Crazy Guy. I'm sure we can still repeat all of our favorite lines.

When I was at school in Paris, she and her sister came to visit me. I remember we went to see Versailles together. I'll always love it that we shared some time together there.

For a long time, it looked like Kate wasn't going to have kids. (Not that she was trying to get pregnant, mind you.) In a way, I wanted her to because I had children and I wanted her to know what it felt like. (Not what it felt like to give birth to them, necessarily, but just what it felt like to be responsible for them later.) And just like everyone who gets married wants all their single friends to get married. She never really struck me as the most maternal type anyway. Of course, neither am I. She finally did have two beautiful little boys who are already making her pay for some of her sins.

Kate became a very successful attorney in Dallas. She talks about all these big-money deals and transactions and stuff that are so far over my head that I again feel like the "I'm with stupid" sidekick. She goes to all these fancy parties and often has drinks at some high-class place like the Ritz. She pays retail for designer clothes and doesn't think twice about it. I remember when we used to shop at Ross together. She wears Manolo Blahniks while I have Montego Bay shoes from Payless. She has a nanny. I have a neighbor I dump my kids on every once in a while. But no matter how different our lifestyles have become, when we get together, just like every time any old friends get together, it's like no time has passed. Except for all the immoral and illegal stuff.

Unexcused Absence

I owe my loyal reader(s) an apology. When my plants started dying, when I ran out of clean clothes, when the newspapers started piling up, and when I realized it had been almost a month since I had shaved my legs, I thought there might be a problem.

When my kids took it upon themselves to learn how to cook on the gas stove, when they threatened to start driving themselves to school, and when I noticed that they had grown about three inches since I last laid eyes on them, I knew something was wrong.

But I really didn't get the wake-up call I needed until I paid a visit to my blog only to find it gasping for breath and begging for a sip of water.

You see, I was brutally victimized by a sort of home invasion. The perpetrator? Something we addicts refer to as FB. Yes, I'm ashamed to admit that I have been sucked in to this ever-expanding vortex of social masturbation. I posted a handful of semi-flattering pictures, splattered some clever profile information, and picked out a few select pieces of "flair." Not long after I had my little "wall" all set up, in came a small deluge of friend requests. (I had not felt this popular since this one time?...at a fraternity party?….)

I'm proud to say that I have yet to participate in any of the little virtual pokes, tickles, sensual massages, quizzes, games, tests, anal probes, drinks, clubs, food-fights, calendars, plants, root canals, fish, flowers, pillow fights, pap smears, bumper cars, hayrides, or whatever other fun-filled, right-at-your-desk fake activities one might find available for the low, low price of several minutes to several hours out of an otherwise real life.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have been able to get back in touch with several friends from as far back as elementary school. We are at that sort of midlife crisis age where we realize that sometimes nostalgia is all we have to look forward to. I also use it to keep up with current local friends when I can't seem to pick up a phone and call or just send them a simple text or e-mail. Why bother with clicking to other forms of communication when I'm already on Facebook?

I like reading friends' profiles and notes and getting to know them better--but only when they have something interesting to say. I'm sorry, but I could not care less what your favorite color is. (Btw, most people say, "I could care less" but that makes no sense and it is WRONG. Take note. But I digress.) I don't care to hear how perfectly perfect your family is or how much you love your cat. Unless the cat is a clone, then that might pique my interest. Otherwise, I'm sorry but that's just plain downright Boring. When I wrote my "25 things" list after far-too-many friends "tagged" me, I tried to make it interesting. Tell me something I don't know, I say. Tell me something sad or scary or crazy or funny. I'm busy wasting time here, so please, make it worth my while.

Sometimes, I'll make sure I'm alone, or make sure no one's looking before I go to my favorites and open Facebook. Like it's porn or something. (Another real time waster.) After I check my inbox and "notifications" and distribute responses appropriately (or in my case, inappropriately), I check status reports for anything the least bit entertaining or interesting. But what do I see? Someone I went to junior high with is going to sleep. The brother of someone I used to work with has a sick kid. An old neighbor's granddaughter's ex-boyfriend is buying groceries. A total stranger who became my friend because we both thought the other was someone else is having dinner.

And what do I do? Stare at the screen like some undead/cyborg hybrid not unlike the way I stare into a refrigerator full of food hoping to find something worth eating. Sure, I could pretend it's just a bad TV show and change the channel, or click on "hear less about this person," but I might miss something redeeming. Or, better yet, I might miss something that I could insult in a "comment." And we know how much I love to hurl (always well-intentioned and good-natured yet tastelessly cruel) insults. It's my superiority complex. That's really my only personality flaw.

Am I going to alienate any of my 152 friends? Honestly, I hope this makes them like me (even) more. I hope this makes them examine their (seemingly hum-drum) lives or (apparently lackluster) days and look for something a little more worth the priceless value of my wasted time than what color socks they are wearing.

Do I think my friends are boring? No, not at all. What about my friends of friends? Well, I'm not sure. What about my acquaintances? Who are you, again? I just don't want to read about any mundane details of their lives. I have spent 20 years or more having no idea at what hour of the day so many of these people had dinner or went to bed. I have lived the majority of my life never wondering, worrying, or giving a flying rat's ass about whether someone I may only vaguely remember is having diarrhea. (If you're that sick, get your damn laptop out of the bathroom.)