It's Official... "Facebook" is Now an Action Verb

According to Time Life Magazine, Mark Zuckerberg, founder of Facebook, is now the man of the year.  While he gave us a magic platform to reach back into our past and locate friends and lovers not seen in thirty years, he also gave busy moms a reason not to feel guilty when we forget our cameras at our children's many, many events, awards ceremonies and such.  We look at the good mom with camera cables, charged batteries and perfectly posed children and can now utter the self redeeming words, "Facebook it."  Within hours, photos of our children come flying in from organized mothers we barely know, but are grateful for.  The word "Facebook" has become an action verb... a task to be performed shortly after the last click of the camera shutter.  "Facebook those pictures to me."  You hear it everywhere.  At a ballgame, when the kids just won the All Star World Series, and you stand there with a pom-pom in hand and no camera, all you need to say is..."Hey, Facebook it." Soon you will be downloading photos of your little winners and uploading them to Walmart for next year's Christmas cards.  I never worry anymore about dead batteries, blurry photos, or missing the right shot.  Someone out there has snapped a prize winning photo and surely will tag me in it.  Even when you don't want photos shared, there is that one person in your group with a handy smart phone who will snap that photo of you and the girls downing drinks at a pub and they will Facebook it before the next round arrives.   The problem with this is that not all of your Facebook Friends need to see these things.   My children's friends will send friend requests and I, like most people, accept their invitation.  It's not like I put anything on Facebook that isn't appropriate for all to see.  It's those dang uploads that get you every time.  I've come to realize that I can't post anything about work, church, politics, or any other sensitive topic.  I'm limited to posting about what I had for dinner and nobody wants to see those posts.  My status bar stays empty most times because I am status aware and need to keep my job.  I need to be a good role model for those kids and I don't want an Instant  Message from my mother asking what I was doing in that pub.  I watch the posts role in about friends who haven't fed their cows in Farmville and wonder how they have time to manage a virtual farm.  I often confuse Mark Zuckerberg with Farmer Zuckerman from Charlotte's Web and wonder if "Some Pig" is out there in Farmville chasing spiders and talking rats.  It would spice the game up a bit.  Surely someone will catch some photos and Facebook them.  Who really doesn't want a photo of a talking pig, anyway.  I surely would and should I ever run into one, I know that I will have no camera in hand. Thank God for that new action verb "Facebook."   I will never again miss another talking pig or pictures of my kids in their greatest moments of childhood.  Someone will Facebook it all to me.

The After Christmas Effect

I would like to introduce Turtle.  He is nameless. He floats around in a tank of hazy water with a facial expression that epitomizes the exhaustion and inability to continue that comes with preparations for the holiday season.   I plan to have postage stamps made with this look and attach them to all of my credit card payments as I slowly begin the process of paying for Christmas.    I know this look and have seen it in my own reflection.  As we grew each day closer to Christmas and all the glory that it is, my eyes lost a bit of twinkle and exhaustion set in as I felt myself sinking to the bottom of this proverbial pond of gift cards, ribbons, bows, increased credit limits, and chocolates from countries I've never heard of.   But, ready or not... Christmas does arrive and it waits for no one.  My Christmas morning begins early because each child wants to wake me in the early morning hours to sneak with them out to the living room to see what treasures Santa has left them. It's our special time that is only shared between mother and child.  We don't play with the toys or pretty things, we just peek and take in the sights and sounds of the living room lit up by the glow of tiny Christmas lights.   We'll sit on the floor together and gaze at all that is there, knowing it is all protected by one very large dozing cat who takes residence under the tree during the month of December. Then.... it's off to bed again.   It isn't long before the other child is gently waking me to sneak with them back to the glory of the living room to see what gifts await them.  My husband and the cat never wake.  They are used to our nocturnal stirrings and pay no attention any more. They no longer wonder what it is we do in the middle of the night.  It has not effected them negatively, so it must all be good.  After child number two was tucked back in bed, I heard what I knew must be my daughter's missing hamster.  It has survived for two weeks by eating the soles of her boots and a tube of pink lip gloss.  Who knew, I must add.  But now.... here he was, early on Christmas morning, and soon I was on the floor with a flashlight and a handful of pumpkin seeds and granola hunting hamsters.  I thought about Mary and baby Jesus and what their night was like some 2050 years ago and thought....   "Wow -  this is so not what they would have been doing" as I tried to squeeze to the back of the closet to find the hamster.  About the time I gave up on finding him, the sun came up and it was time to make that long walk down the hallway again.  This time, the entire family was in tow... except the hamster.  Even with pre-exhaustion setting in before a complete sunrise, the magic of Christmas began to unfold before us. And as always - it was wonderful.  It was a busy day and I'm still trying to dig myself out from a pile of wrapping paper and increased credit card debt, but what fun we had.  The best gift was having my brother home for the holidays.  He brought us jewelry hand crafted from villagers in Africa.  The items were lovely.   He gave my son a necklace that has an image of what appears to be a leaping gazelle on it.  I'm a little concerned that this might actually be the fertility God symbol.  I will add this to my list of things to check on tomorrow.  No room for error there, you know.  My daughter was thrilled with each of her gifts that slowly transformed her into a tiny jet setting Valley Girl... Flannel pants, Uggs, Northface, Apple... We have moved past the age of Barbie Dolls that are wired to their packages and require special welding tools and cutters for removal.   We had all of our friends and family over and had a wonderful time visiting and watching the kids be kids.   My daughter managed to walk into a remote control dual rotor Chinook helicopter that was hovering about the living room.   It made an emergency landing deep inside her long locks of hair.  Dual rotors!  Yes - Not just one to unwind massive amounts of brunette hair from, but two, for added fun.    I do believe that having a helicopter attached to the side of your head is a look that could be pulled off at Christmastime - Look at Cindy Lou Who who proudly wore a tea cup and saucer in her blonde beauty doo.   It's all about owning it, I suppose.   After the removal of the helicopter and a few layers of hair, we gathered in the den for the traditional singing of Christmas carols and downing of eggnog.  Oh, wait - That's not us - that was George Bailey's Family in a Wonderful Life.  We raced to the den to pick our avatars and do a little white water rafting while standing in a raft at the headwaters of Nintendo's Curvy Creek.    We jumped and pivoted and flung our arms in the air to grab virtual coins that I was unaware loomed at the top of the treeline as we plummeted down the raging waters. We crashed through pilings and piers and somehow came out unscathed, but exhausted.  I finally left the kids to play with their toys and claimed my spot on the couch in front of the fire where I am certain I wore the same look as the aforementioned turtle.  I woke this morning and all is calm in the house.   I'm not sure, but I believe there may be an extra child somewhere in the den buried under a pile of wrapping paper and Christmas joy.  In just a short while, I will wake them all and begin putting things back in order.  Perhaps the hamster will return to this cage, the turtle will bask on his rock, and I can thumb through my photos of another wonderful Christmas with family.

The Model Consumer

I am the model consumer.  A product label promising new and improved qualities to my life is certain to gain my attention.  These products are strategically placed in retail stores to speak in coded tongue to shoppers like me.  Just the other day, I went to the new MegaTron, bigger than the last one, Walmart, built three sites over from the previous two.   All I needed was a loaf of bread.  As any good Southern woman knows, it is almost impossible to leave Wal-Mart without spending a hundred dollars or more. Immediately upon entry, I was drawn to the vitamin aisle with an already lingering notion that perhaps I needed more vitamin D in my life.  I actually needed a cruise to a sunny tropical island, but I temporarily quieted that wish with a bottle of sunlight and a need to shop.  Unfortunately, all the other letters of the alphabet called out to me and soon I could play a quick game of Scrabble with the bottles of Vitamin A, K, D and B in my basket.   I moved to the next aisle and a can of Skintamate shaving cream called to me from the shelf.  It was baby blue and offered Skin Therapy.  Who doesn't need skin therapy, I ask you?  I did have Vitamin D in a bottle to hold me until I could soak up UV rays at the Tropic of Cancer, but now there was skin therapy available for $4.79.   It was "Baby Soft" and "Lotionized"  My God - Lotionized!!!!  I didn't even know this was a concept, let alone an actual word, but I wanted it.  I wanted a Skintimate experience where I would bathe in skin therapy and be lotionized.  An added bonus.... It had Vitamin E!!!!   Who planned this product! They knew me so well!    Suddenly, I could hardly wait to get home and shave my legs.... an act that brought no real pleasure, unless you are 11 and getting to shave for the very first time.  After that... the fun is gone... unless you purchase Skintimate Skin Therpay.   It's funny to me that nowhere on the bottle does it actually say shaving cream.  And yet, I knew what this product could do for me and it quickly landed in the bottom of my basket with the rest of the letters of the alphabet.    By the time I made it to the bread aisle, I had well over $100 worth of items in my basket, all promising some form of new and improved life.  Truth be told.... I'm certain my life would remain just as good without these false promises of delight.  My husband uses a simple bar of Dial Soap for everything.  I spend $18 for a bottle of volumizing, moisture sealing, illuminating shampoo and he uses a bar of soap.  Our hair looks fine, except mine smells like scented expensive shampoo and his smells like clean hair.  Isn't that really all we are seeking.  Hmmmm?????  We currently have nine bottles of shampoo in our shower.... one for everybody's needs.   My son has teenage straightening shampoo.  My daughter has something that has a fun lid and smells like popsicles.  Even the dog has a bottle in there for tick and flea removal.  I know that one day I will be all leathered up in Skin Therapy and grab the wrong bottle of shampoo and find myself tick and flea free with a scent like I've just been to the vet.  My husband may be smarter than all of us with his single bar of soap and absence of label reading.  His Vitamin D comes from working in the garden and his straight hair comes from genetics.  Perhaps if I read less labels and went back to hot water and a bar of soap, I would be many dollars closer to that trip to the tropics.  I believe it may be time to let someone else do the shopping!

The Secret Order of the Big Haired Beauties

My child learned, at a young age, the power of big hair.  It is something I have always wanted, but have never had the luxury of having.  In the 80's, when big hair defined who you were, I was cursed with short wispy blonde locks.   This tiny beauty, however, must have inherited a big hair gene that I never knew was lying dormant inside of me.  I'm guilty of big hair envy and a feeling of sadness still wells up inside of me as I pass down the hair care aisle and see all of the hair freezing and big sexy hair products used to create these heavenly coifs.  My daughter enjoys her gift of big hair and spends many an hour in front of the mirror working it into styles that would make Miss America and fairy tale princesses proud.   I've discovered, while looking in from the outside of the big hair world, that there is a sisterly bond, an unspoken covenant, between those who are lucky enough to have big hair.  This bond transcends language barriers, shorelines, and age differences.   Let me explain....Most every mall in America has vendors in the inside court area who sell hair straighteners, iron rods and such.  Many of these saleswoman are here on work visas from Israel.  They are dark haired beauties armed with kind smiles, big hair and a cash register.  While their English may be limited, they have no problem communicating with their big haired sisters.  My daughter can walk in the mall and I instantly hear.... "Oh my God,  you are beautiful.  Look at your hair!  Look at both of you."  They hug, touch each other's long locks, and speak in some kind of secret language of giggles and hair care terminology.  I hear whispers about  phenol derivatives, chemical changes and finishing sprays used to maintain styles of the hardest to hold hair. There are more giggles and dark hair begins to fly out in all directions as they shape, straighten, mold and create new beauty doos.   I stand there with my straight wispy blonde strands and wonder if the salesgirl's comments are sincere or just quoted from a sales manual that is obviously well written because before this happy reunion is over, my child's hair is three inches bigger, I'm feeling pretty sexy, too and I've written out another check for $120.00   I know women who spend thousands of dollars on pills and therapists to fight depression and raise their self esteem, so I never feel guilty about my occasional support of these hair care girl's work in America when they leave me feeling confident and sexy even if it is only until the chemicals break down and my hair is flat again.    After our last encounter with our hair care friends, my daughter left with a large bag of hair care products and I left with the notion that I, too, would look good in a pair of gold spandex pants and leather boots like Aleana and Marnisha were wearing.   Thank God better senses prevailed and I remembered that is only a look you can pull off with big hair and a small butt.  There is a mathematical formula that calculates the mass of one's hair style and the size of one's back-side to determine if you can pull off that look without defying laws of physics, breaking any fashion rules or scaring friends and neighbors.  Our friends wore this look well.  As a forty six year old mother of two, I accepted the fact that I was a few years too late and a few hairs too short  to wrap my ass in spandex and parade around in boots. But oh...if I only could!

The Darkside of Social Media

One simple desire to build a word with seven little random tiles in an on-line game called Scrabble has led me down a path of destruction where I woke this morning to find my identity has been erased.   You would think that sitting on your sofa with your children while they do homework would be a fairly harmless event.   While piddling around on the computer, my son told me about an online game site where I can play Scrabble with strangers.  Sounds fun, I thought!  As I began to register to play, I discovered a button that says I can connect with my Facebook account.  How easy… How thoughtful of them to give me this option.   Oddly when I did this, I was instantly in my account with the screen name  “Darkside 902”.  Honestly, that should have been my first red flag.  But no… I wandered down this road oblivious to the violations I was incurring.  Curious about this seemingly dark identity, I asked my children how this came to be.   My daughter informed me that the screen name was just randomly assigned.  I should have known better.  My son gave me a better explanation that his friend was on my laptop and tried to connect when I must have had my Facebook running in the background.  This seemed reasonable and I bought it.  I tried to change my screen name, but I was stuck as Darkside902.  Heck – all I wanted to do was build a word or two, so I continued on my journey.   I didn’t know that my name would be posted on the side screen where I could chat with other gamers.    While “ButterCup78”, “LuluSmiles”, and “PJinMaine” built words fast and furiously, they chatted it up on the sidelines.  Nobody wanted to talk to Darkside 902.  Somehow I felt alone – ostracized by a bunch of alphabet wielding strangers.  I built a seven letter, 32 point word and exited the room with my head hung in shame from a name I never chose and somehow couldn’t change.   I closed the computer and went to bed – unaware what was occurring in the background.  As I woke, I discovered that my Facebook account had been disabled without warning.  No reason was given - just an immediate removal from the virtual world where I have 542 friends, 1050 pictures of my children and two messages from people I haven’t seen in 30 years.   I’m being punished and I don’t even know what I did wrong.   In the pit of my stomach, I know that it has something to do with that damn Darkside 902.  I knew it was trouble.   The name, alone, screamed trouble!   Years ago, my ten year old son was banned for life from a very large on-line gaming community for “real-world” selling.   Seems he figured out how to quickly earn large amount of points, buy precious commodities and sell them on eBay where he would then meet the buyer in the virtual world and hand over the golden axes, cloaks of invisibility and crowns of honor.  This, it seems, was a frowned upon practice.   I found quickly that there was no phone number to contact anyone on the website.  Your only hope for reason is a one-time appeal where you can state your case and hope that the virtual judges and demi-Gods will shed their grace on you and forgive you.   I wrote a letter that would make my college English professor proud and apologized for my little boy’s indiscretions.  An almost instant response came back that simply said, “NO – He may not play our game.  You may ask again, once only, and we may reconsider.”    I found that the site owners were from somewhere outside the boundries of the United States and did not have a similar justice system as we.  Nor did they have compassion, forgiveness or toll-free numbers.  I could picture them laughing on their little medieval island of pages and pawns enjoying those requests for forgiveness of sins.   After begging for mercy a second time, they now informed me that they were slapping my child’s hand from across the water and that he would never mine for oar again on their lands.  We accepted defeat and moved on to other interests.   I can only hope that the owners of Facebook do not live on that same island of exclusivity and want me to come on bended knee to beg for mercy for unknown crimes.    They too, offer no real-world contact… just a button that takes me to an appeal page where I can upload a government issued I.D. to prove my identity and hope for the best.  There is no space for comments, questions, or pleas.  I believe I am slowly transforming to Darkside 902 who is standing outside the social media world with my hat in my hand begging for mercy.  Oh wait … that would be a hooded cape in hand.  I forget who I am sometimes!

Salutations and Traffic Circles

I was recently in the grocery store when the cashier greeted me with a friendly smile.  Out of common courtesy, I asked, "How are you today?"  While this is a pretty simple question, it doesn't always come with a simple answer.  Certainly there must be a list of inappropriate answers that everyone should avoid using. When you are stacking your overly priced organically grown produce onto the conveyor belt, an inappropriate response from your cashier is... "Well.... I'm better now that the rash is going away.  I was doing good just scratching my lower body until it spread everywhere.  My infectious disease doctor told me it could take a few months to go away completely. "   A rush of heat instantly overcame me and and it took all my might to keep from screaming, "Drop those carrots and put on some gloves!"   This was not the answer I was looking for, nor did I want.   My daughter is a complete germaphobe and the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I must admit.  About the time the words "Infectious Disease" were uttered, my child instantly began bathing in germ-X and hiding fruit that wasn't wrapped in a sanitary package.  What ever happened to the answer, "I'm fine.  Thank you."?  I've tried to explain to my children that when strangers ask how you are, they really don't want to hear anything other than a few words indicating that you are well and hopefully rash free.    There is a lady in town who I often run into.  I will say, "Hello" and she always replies with, "Fine, thank you."  This has puzzled me for years, because I didn't ask yet.  The natural thing to say after "Hello" is  "How are you?" but now we have already jumped right past that.  Sometimes I get flustered and ask anyway.  It's as if my manners are on auto-pilot and that question must be asked.   The conversation goes something like this:

(Me)            "Hello"
(Stranger)    "Fine- Thank You"
(Me)            "How are you?"
(Stranger)    "I'm Fine, I said"

           long pause....

(Me)            "Uh...I'm rash free."


Obviously we never have progressed much further in this friendship than the greeting.   Sometimes when I'm walking along at work and my mind is preoccupied with important things like budget variances, what tonight's dinner might be, or that woman at the mall with the really big hair,  I will get lost in the cycle of greetings and repeat the question making everyone terribly uncomfortable.    It always happens when you combine your salutation with the question addressing the other's welfare. They should never be joined as one.     I will politely greet them with  "Hello.  How are you?" and the other person will respond appropriately with, "I'm fine... and you?"  I will return with "I'm fine.... How are you?"   It is like one of those hideous traffic circles they have in lower Louisiana or Washington D.C.  Once you get in them, you can never get out.    At some point, you are forced to just lower your windows, circle for hours and yell at all the drivers - "Hello...How are you?"   I've actually made some really close friends this way.   Sadly, when you are standing in a hallway, face to face with someone and you have asked how they are one too many times, you need not answer when they ask about you because they have already figured out that you are obviously bordering on some kind of mental breakdown, just rude, or related to Dr. Seuss who is known for his wonderfully weird greetings:  "Hello - Do you like my hat?" "No I do not like your hat - do you like mine" "Yes oh yes I like your hat - do you like mine?"     At that point, you try to break eye contact and escape into the nearest office where hopefully you will not be met with those dreaded words, "Hi - How are you?"  The simplest things in life can sometimes be the most daunting.  

The Power of the Pyramid and Other Pointy Structures

Personal space comes in many sizes.  My family genetics tends to point towards a much larger personal space than most.  Creating, crafting and controlling our own little space is an involuntary function almost as important as breathing.   My daughter has understood this powerful inner driver ever since she was a very young child.  I know this to be true as I sit her looking at the teepee she has erected in my living room that she has transformed into her personal office.  Now, not many people have a teepee in their living room.  In fact, most people would not allow a teepee or any other large structure to remain for long in their living room if ever erected at all.  However.... each night as we begin homework,  my tiny princess enters the room with a zebra striped, hot pink book bag in one arm and eight foot poles covered in cloth under the other arm.  She quietly goes to work setting up her work space.  She carefully positions the structure so that she can see the television through one entrance and have healthy snacks delivered through the rear flap.   Eraser dust flies from both entrances as she dives into mathematical word problems and begins to alphabetize 47 words all beginning with “S”.  I understand that there is an unexplained phenomena about the power of sitting under a pyramid.  While the teepee isn’t a perfect geometric shape of mathematical perfection, it is a shape known to have properties filled with cosmic energy.  I was reading on line about the power of the pyramid and there are some very clear rules about managing your personal pyramid. Who even knew there was such a thing.  The first is that a pyramid is a very personal item and you should never share it with anyone.  I’m guessing that most people in this day and age that have taken the time to build their own pyramid probably will find themselves sitting in it alone anyway.  Now… as for teepees (near pyramid shapes) I notice that there is a steady stream of visitors to my daughter’s fortress and I’m guessing by the straight A’s on her report card and her 500 friends on Facebook that the power of the pyramid shape welcomes friends and guests.  There are often several pair of feet sticking out from the sides of the teepee and muted giggles coming from within.  This morning, I found two dozing cats curled up inside soaking up the mystical energy and leftover pieces of string cheese.  There were also empty juice boxes, forbidden materials in the living room, that were found laying near the cats.  I’m certain they will take the blame for securing the party goods and laying drunk amongst the discarded Juicy Juice boxes. Everyone, it seems, has been to the teepee, but me. So... Because today is the first day in some time that I have no luncheons to attend, school functions to be at, or demands to deliver forgotten items to children illegally texting from school in a panic, my plan is such... Make a healthy veggie sandwich, which nobody likes but me, drink a soda and sit in the teepee and let it reverse the effects of a week’s worth of stress and caffeinated beverages.  I’m planning on returning to work next week at least a year younger and with visions of great things headed my way all thanks to the power of the pyramid and my inability to say “no” to the wants of my tiny girl.