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.)

Verbal Abuse (New & Improved)

Yesterday morning, Luke told me, "I play this Nintendo game good." I said, "No. You play it well. Well is an adverb, adverbs modify verbs, and to play is a verb. Good (in this instance) is an adjective. Adjectives modify nouns." After I realized (again) that I sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher to him, he looked at me and asked, "Why aren't they called adnouns? Shouldn't adjectives modify jectives?" He totally missed the point.

The majority of my friends, acquaintances, blog reader(s), and healthcare providers are well-aware that I am a bit of a stickler when it comes to proper grammar, spelling, and punctuation. Hell, spelling ability was one of the top five reasons I married my husband or even dated him in the first place. And I'm proud to say that both of my children know the difference between "your" and "you're" and the difference between "its" and "it's," which is a lot more than I can say for most adults I know. I have convinced my family that the only thing worse than misplacing my keys is misplacing a modifier. They pretend to know what a gerund is so as not to upset my fragile psyche. And they know all-too-well that dangling a participle in front of me is an open invitation for my unbridled wrath to rain down upon them.

I don't care what you say, as long as you say it correctly. If someone were to write me a note that says, "go to hell bitch." I would return it to them with red marks showing that the word "go" should be capitalized, the word "hell" needs a comma after it, and the word "bitch" needs a capital "B" (because it refers to Me). I might also suggest that the statement end with an exclamation mark instead of a period.

Now, I don't pretend or profess to be the world's greatest expert on the English language. (Well, sometimes I do pretend to be.) I only got a bachelor's degree in English. It's not as if I did something crazy like get a Ph.D. in grammar:

"Oh, you have a Ph.D.? So you're a 'doctor.' Doctor of what, may I ask?"

"Thanks for asking. I have a Ph.D. in English grammar. I'm a grammar doctor. Can I edit something for you?"

I believe my linguistic superiority, whether it is real or imagined, can be somewhat off-putting to anyone who wants to speak in my presence. I wonder if they bite their tongues lest I mentally edit each word they utter. This, of course, works to my advantage because (1) I don't have to listen to other people talk and (2) I get to talk more. And let's face it; wouldn't most of you rather listen to me?

Because I don't trust my children's teachers, I take advantage of every opportunity to train my kids to respect, revere, and regularly employ basic grammar rules. If any other children (or adults for that matter) are within earshot, all the better for them. One of my biggest challenges over the past few years has been drilling it into the kids' heads that "me" cannot be the subject of a standard sentence. Here are some examples:

Luke: "Me and him were making up jokes about our nuts."
Me: "Me was doing what? . . . Him was doing what?"
Luke: "Making up jokes about our nuts."
Me: "You should say, 'He and I were making up jokes about our nuts.'"

Katy: "Me and Lily and Maddie are so hot for Brance." (Their real names, by the way.)
Me: "Me is so hot for whom?"
Katy: "I don't know whom you're hot for, Mom, but we're hot for Brance."

Likewise, "I" cannot be the object of a sentence:

Katy: "Take a picture of Brooke and I."
Me: "Take a picture of I?"
Katy: "No, she and I."
Me: "Take a picture of she and take a picture of I?"
Katy: "No, of me and Brooke."
Me: "Thank you."

As I have stated before, any so-called errors I may have made (or may make) in any blog posts are actually intentional examples of the poetic license I am entitled to by virtue of my obvious genius in this unpopular and endangered arena.

I know what you're thinking:

(1) How pathetic is she that this is her only talent?
(2) Why must she try to make herself feel important by mocking and looking down on those less grammatically fortunate?
(3) Why does she abuse her children this way?

The answers:

(1) I have other talents that I am not as proud of,
(2) Therefore, I need to boost my self-esteem at the expense of others, and
(3) My kids will make me look good later when I can tell people they have Ph.D.s.

Today is the First Day of the Next Four Years

How did it get to be January 20 already? I was supposed to be more on top of my new life plan by now. Instead here I am either Facebooking or blogging. Not big moneymakers for a work-from-home lawyer. So this will be short. Mainly so I can go watch the inauguration ceremony. I love it that Obama will be sworn in with his hand on the same Bible Lincoln used. I don't care what your political views are, you have to admit it's a nice touch, and would be a good smack in the face for racists and white supremacists, were they capable of understanding.

I have an old Vietnam vet client who used to tell me a lot of the old classic southern racist jokes -- not because he thought I was racist, but simply because he knew I was white, and because he knew I liked to laugh. I did laugh, but mostly at his audacity and at the realization that when I was a kid, that stuff was common and no real harm was meant by it. We didn't know what "hate speech" was. The "N" word was a mere descriptive term that my grandparents used. They never uttered it in a pejorative way. Anyway, don't want to go off on that tangent.

My client told me that he recently discovered that he has some "half-breed" grand-nieces. He said, "And I'll be damned if they ain't the purtiest things you ever did see." So proud of them and so struck by the young girls' beauty.

Then he proceeds to tell me, "You know, I've been thinkin' 'bout it, and all them white presidents ain't never done us a damn bit o' good, so maybe with this one we have a chance."

It's not the skin color itself that makes it different. Never should be in any case. But I think it's the life experience or empathy or symbolism behind it that makes it different. Not that that alone would make a person a good (or bad) president.

I wonder how many of us are not so much glad to see a new president as they are just glad to see the old one go.

High Resolutions

When I was working on my English degree, I preferred world literature over English or American. But I always did like some snippets from English poet Alexander Pope.

Every January, I am reminded of this:

Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never is, but always to be blessed.
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

(I think he's really referring to Heaven there, but for our purposes, let's pretend he's talking about our materialistic Earth.)

Sure, I don't have much breast from which hope could spring, but no matter how negative I seem, I am always hopeful that the next day, week, month, year will be better (or even better as the case may be). Is hope a bad thing? Does it mean you're not satisfied with today? I think it just means you always hope for the best, you hope for blue skies and rainbows and butterflies and a magic invisible leprechaun to hand you a million dollars every time you ask for it. You hope for your family's health and safety and happiness and that they don't kill you in your sleep.

Might I add that Pope also said Fools rush in where angels fear to tread. So maybe I'm a fool to rush in to such hope—especially when I seem to have all I need, and especially when hope has no power over fate or destiny or cellulite. I imagine angels take things as they come and rest as the discontent keep searching for something they think might be better.

My favorite Pope quote (Americanized here) is probably: True wit is nature to advantage dressed; What often was thought, but never so well expressed. This really has no relevance here other than to point out how witty I am.

All this to say, a new year always gives me a feeling of a do-over. A mulligan. A chance to be more successful, patient, grateful, sensitive, and spiritual. Basically, a new chance to be more better. A chance to become someone I'll never be without a lobotomy, but I'll keep hope alive--at least for that leprechaun.

We'll see how it goes.

Free Preview Below. Enjoy.

I just took the first batch to the post office. About 100 covered the first half of the alphabet. Such shameless self-promotion, I know. You will be getting your hard copy with pictures soon (if you're lucky enough to make the cut). Once you read it, let me know if you'd like me to unsubscribe you for next year. There's a waiting list. And if you're just some random stranger who has stumbled upon this page after Googling something like "dog puke" then this is all you get.

And I must apologize to those A-M's who received the bad font copies. They are very hard to read, even for me with my new trifocals. I blame Kinko's. If you need a new copy, just ask, and I'll tell you how to print from this screen.