You may have noticed that Bertha has shown remarkable restraint this “spring” by avoiding all mention of the weather. Weather is usually a safe subject anyway, at least conversationally, but I am not sure that anyone can talk or write about the weather this spring without getting a little hot under the collar, which is a good thing for the neck.
Well, I stood it as long as I could. Last weekend made me give it up. I am now ready to launch an attack upon the weather, which is sure to do some good.
Yes, I know we need “the moisture.” It isn't the moisture that I mind. Moisture is just water. It's when it presents itself in the form of snow, ice or hail that I get cross. And actually I don't have a problem with snow or ice either if it shows up during winter—you know, that three-month period between the middle of November and the middle of February.
One of the myths that is taught and perpetuated in schools and elsewhere is that there are four seasons of equal length I and that they march rhythmically on through the year without missing a beat. There are graphics around, on calendars and on the web and such, that romanticize each of the four seasons. Snowflakes for winter, colored leaves for fall, beach umbrellas for summer and flowers for spring, as if one for each season could organize things.
But we are getting swindled. We now see green grass and tulips, but they have snow on them. I don't have to tell you that snow is associated with freezing temperatures. Again, that would be okay in “winter” when people actually have their winter clothes and boots in the front of their closets and they prepare for bouts of cold weather. It just isn't any fun at soccer games, campouts and family reunions.
Up until now, I have been able to deal with the cold and over-extended winter weather because I sm an “oh, well,” kind of person. As in “oh well, at least I am not getting sunburned today.” I have been hard-pressed to find enough “oh wells” to improve my attitude this time. In case you want to know what I have been telling myself, and in hopes that it might help someone else cope with wind and cold, I have herewith written the Bertha Butterbean Oh-Well List for Long Winters. Oh well…
1.I look better in winter clothes.
2.The bugs are all gone somewhere else. So are the snakes and lizards.
3. No one has to wonder whether the lawnmower will start.
4. Basketball supplants baseball.
5. Turning on the air conditioner is out of the question.
6. Politicians give the global warming issue a rest.
7.I feel good about owning an SUV.
8.I can make soup for dinner every night.
9.Spring is sure to come sometime.
I thought I could come up with a traditional list of ten “oh wells.” I'm sorry, but I just couldn't finish it. To tell the truth, I was reaching for the last two or three.
You may also have noticed that until number 6. above, I refrained from making any sort of reference to global warming. Personally I was sad to see its demise and am looking forward to its retuurn, provided that can happen without it becoming a political controversy.
I have my own definition of climate change. The seasons have shifted around to later in the calendar year. Winter starts later and ends later than it used to. Someday we may have to use little snowflake graphics to denote spring. Oh well…
Totally not by the way, I read this joke online the other day:
First cave man to second cave man: "I don't care what you say. We never had such unusual weather before they started using bows and arrows."
I don't know how long this joke has been around, but to me it sounds like commentary on the climate-change issue.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Camping and the gender gap
From time to time the topics of Bertha's articles have had something to do with the gender gap—the differences between the sexes—especially in terms of their approach to various activities and problem solving.
I remember writing about the differences in the way men and women orient themselves on this planet. Most men use north, south, east and west. Most women use landmarks.
Then there is the issue of the thermostat. According to my extensive polling data, men turn it down. Women turn it up. Of course, traditional clothing styles contribute to gender temperature disparity. At certain events, men are required to wear suits, some of them consisting of three pieces layered over a shirt or two. Those are the same events at which women wear strapless, sleeveless, backless, and other abbreviated clothing. What is up with that?
Well, those issues are weak when it comes to this one: how did girls and guys get to be so far apart on the proper way of getting in touch with nature? As we make plans for yet another girls' camp experience, I find myself wondering about that once more.
As you know, guys tend not to plan their outdoor experiences. They throw some food and gear into the truck and head for the great outdoors where they seem to feel comfortable wearing wet shoes and sleeping with bears.
Girls, on the other hand, bring along everything required to make the experience not only comfortable but also healthy, enlightening, civilized, educational, worthwhile and memorable. So they need (minimum) the correct food and equipment to cook it, field books, showers, journals, cameras, three changes of clothes per day, shoes to complement all of the above outfits, toilet paper, soap, towels, electronic devices such as cell phones and hair dryers, and table centerpieces.
Once when I conscripted my 18-year-old son into bringing his pickup truck to carry a load of gear home from girls camp, his patient nature was taxed when he had to help me carry many loads of stuff from the campsite to his truck. Even I, a girl, was embarrassed.
“What do girls do with all of this stuff?” he grumbled. I had a hard time explaining it myself.
However, only a girl would leave her hiking boots home and go on a five-mile trail hike in strappy sandals. And only a girl would bring the scallions and leave the matches home.
Camping has been described as something we all did before we discovered houses. And then there are girls like my sister who see absolutely no point in regression, individually or collectively, which attitude may explain the need for girls to make the outdoor experience as much like being at home as possible.
It was probably women tired of camping who invented houses. Then men feeling the need to go far and wide in search of game invented tents, and camping became a recreational sport rather than a way of living. Then someone remembered that the wheel had been invented and put those on little houses and almost everyone was happier.
But when youth groups go camping, they don't go in camp trailers. So we're back to square one. Girls just need more in the out-of-doors to make them happy than boys do.
This little story illustrates my point about the gender gap:
My outdoor-enthusiast son went through the process of bringing three offspring into the world without getting a son of his own. (I know, there is a bit of a gender gap in that whole process as well.) After waiting for about eight years to get a son to take into the wilderness with him, he gave up and invited his oldest daughter.
“Hey Sis. let's you and I go camping and fishing this weekend.”
She had an immediate response.
“Why?”
I remember writing about the differences in the way men and women orient themselves on this planet. Most men use north, south, east and west. Most women use landmarks.
Then there is the issue of the thermostat. According to my extensive polling data, men turn it down. Women turn it up. Of course, traditional clothing styles contribute to gender temperature disparity. At certain events, men are required to wear suits, some of them consisting of three pieces layered over a shirt or two. Those are the same events at which women wear strapless, sleeveless, backless, and other abbreviated clothing. What is up with that?
Well, those issues are weak when it comes to this one: how did girls and guys get to be so far apart on the proper way of getting in touch with nature? As we make plans for yet another girls' camp experience, I find myself wondering about that once more.
As you know, guys tend not to plan their outdoor experiences. They throw some food and gear into the truck and head for the great outdoors where they seem to feel comfortable wearing wet shoes and sleeping with bears.
Girls, on the other hand, bring along everything required to make the experience not only comfortable but also healthy, enlightening, civilized, educational, worthwhile and memorable. So they need (minimum) the correct food and equipment to cook it, field books, showers, journals, cameras, three changes of clothes per day, shoes to complement all of the above outfits, toilet paper, soap, towels, electronic devices such as cell phones and hair dryers, and table centerpieces.
Once when I conscripted my 18-year-old son into bringing his pickup truck to carry a load of gear home from girls camp, his patient nature was taxed when he had to help me carry many loads of stuff from the campsite to his truck. Even I, a girl, was embarrassed.
“What do girls do with all of this stuff?” he grumbled. I had a hard time explaining it myself.
However, only a girl would leave her hiking boots home and go on a five-mile trail hike in strappy sandals. And only a girl would bring the scallions and leave the matches home.
Camping has been described as something we all did before we discovered houses. And then there are girls like my sister who see absolutely no point in regression, individually or collectively, which attitude may explain the need for girls to make the outdoor experience as much like being at home as possible.
It was probably women tired of camping who invented houses. Then men feeling the need to go far and wide in search of game invented tents, and camping became a recreational sport rather than a way of living. Then someone remembered that the wheel had been invented and put those on little houses and almost everyone was happier.
But when youth groups go camping, they don't go in camp trailers. So we're back to square one. Girls just need more in the out-of-doors to make them happy than boys do.
This little story illustrates my point about the gender gap:
My outdoor-enthusiast son went through the process of bringing three offspring into the world without getting a son of his own. (I know, there is a bit of a gender gap in that whole process as well.) After waiting for about eight years to get a son to take into the wilderness with him, he gave up and invited his oldest daughter.
“Hey Sis. let's you and I go camping and fishing this weekend.”
She had an immediate response.
“Why?”
Kids on the move
Sometimes I have to reach way back into the past to come up with a topic for a Butterbean article. Our days are usually a lot calmer than they used to be. Writing about everyday life now could potentially put anyone to sleep.
So this story comes from several years back when I had all sorts of kids at home, and life was anything but calm:
"Last night my eight-year-old son had the nerve to tell me to quit wiggling. I was sitting quietly enough on the couch listening to him read a story, only it was a bad story so I was trying to get relief by watching a worse television commercial. Hence the slight rhythmic jiggling of my foot.
But my son didn't say, “Will you please stop wiggling?” Instead he took the oblique approach.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
This impertinence from the kid who is directly related to Tigger. He has springs in his feet, He swims in his sleep. He jumps hurdles at church.
For the past eight years he has been hopping, running, squirming, kicking, dancing, skipping, double-timing through my life, and he has the nerve to fault a little jiggling of my foot?
I suppose the average family has a blanket rule for conduct indoors. Something like “no running in the house” probably covers most of the eventualities. But that just won't cut it in the Butterbean family. Not inclusive enough, or I guess the right word be “exclusive,”
So here is the list of rules for behavior regulating motion in the Butterbean household: (They do kind of date us, but you only have to take a look at us and we are automatically dated anyway.
1. No break-dancing in the kitchen.
2. No sporting events in the house. (Covers sprinting, hurdling, high-jumping, long-jumping, pole-vaulting and throwing anything. Also covers dribbling, slam-dunking, sliding, serving, spiking, etc.
)
3. No Michael Jordan or Greg Loughannes impressions.
4. No karate.
5. No super friends impersonations. (Covers Spiderman, Aquaman, Superman, Batman, Tarzan and Geraldo.)
6. No sugar.
7. I reserve the right to enact new rules without prior notice and upon the discovery of hitherto unknown-or-thought-of anti-inertia forces.
At one time I advised this kid that his body would be less abused if he didn't run everywhere he went. I meant to imply that walking into door jambs is safer than running into them. He thought about that for a few seconds and then replied, “But Mom, running is my main thing.”
Just for your peace of mind, I didn't let the kid get away with checking on my bathroom habits. I invoked my right to administer punishment without prior warning. He had to run around the house twenty times. That would be the outside of the house.
He loved every minute of it. Oh well.
Looking back now, I am wondering how Running Boy and I ever happened to be sitting on the couch reading a book in the first place. I must have had more backbone and determination than I thought I did.
Looking back now, I am wondering how Running Boy and I ever happened to be sitting on the couch reading a book in the first place. I must have had more backbone and determination than I thought I did.
So this story comes from several years back when I had all sorts of kids at home, and life was anything but calm:
"Last night my eight-year-old son had the nerve to tell me to quit wiggling. I was sitting quietly enough on the couch listening to him read a story, only it was a bad story so I was trying to get relief by watching a worse television commercial. Hence the slight rhythmic jiggling of my foot.
But my son didn't say, “Will you please stop wiggling?” Instead he took the oblique approach.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
This impertinence from the kid who is directly related to Tigger. He has springs in his feet, He swims in his sleep. He jumps hurdles at church.
For the past eight years he has been hopping, running, squirming, kicking, dancing, skipping, double-timing through my life, and he has the nerve to fault a little jiggling of my foot?
I suppose the average family has a blanket rule for conduct indoors. Something like “no running in the house” probably covers most of the eventualities. But that just won't cut it in the Butterbean family. Not inclusive enough, or I guess the right word be “exclusive,”
So here is the list of rules for behavior regulating motion in the Butterbean household: (They do kind of date us, but you only have to take a look at us and we are automatically dated anyway.
1. No break-dancing in the kitchen.
2. No sporting events in the house. (Covers sprinting, hurdling, high-jumping, long-jumping, pole-vaulting and throwing anything. Also covers dribbling, slam-dunking, sliding, serving, spiking, etc.
)
3. No Michael Jordan or Greg Loughannes impressions.
4. No karate.
5. No super friends impersonations. (Covers Spiderman, Aquaman, Superman, Batman, Tarzan and Geraldo.)
6. No sugar.
7. I reserve the right to enact new rules without prior notice and upon the discovery of hitherto unknown-or-thought-of anti-inertia forces.
At one time I advised this kid that his body would be less abused if he didn't run everywhere he went. I meant to imply that walking into door jambs is safer than running into them. He thought about that for a few seconds and then replied, “But Mom, running is my main thing.”
Just for your peace of mind, I didn't let the kid get away with checking on my bathroom habits. I invoked my right to administer punishment without prior warning. He had to run around the house twenty times. That would be the outside of the house.
He loved every minute of it. Oh well.
Looking back now, I am wondering how Running Boy and I ever happened to be sitting on the couch reading a book in the first place. I must have had more backbone and determination than I thought I did.
Looking back now, I am wondering how Running Boy and I ever happened to be sitting on the couch reading a book in the first place. I must have had more backbone and determination than I thought I did.
I can't park here?
You will probably never believe that I am old enough to have a grandson in college. Okay, maybe you can. But the thing is he doesn't drive, so his parents have to take him to and from his classes. That is usually okay. It isn't far away, and he can arrange his schedule with classes one after the other so that driving isn't usually a hardship.
At least that is the case when his parents are dropping him off. They just drive up to the area in question and let him out the door. Picking him up is a different story, however, because they might have to park and wait for him to emerge from whichever building he is in.
This is a long-established university which means that when it was built years ago, there was no need for multiple parking spaces. I don't know whether there were any cars back then. Students probably lived on campus and could walk to all their classes.
That is no longer the case. You probably have heard more than one campus-parking horror story. Their main theme of them is that there isn't any—campus parking that is.
So the other night, my grandson was driven up to the campus by a friend, and his parents didn't know exactly where to meet him to pick him up. To make matters worse, the power was out and dad's cell phone was down.
Consequently, both dad and mom were at the college in separate cars trying to find and pick up their student without out the aid of phones or street lighting. It was the week before finals and the engineering building was full of students completing semester projects. Every one of those students had brought a car on campus, and every parking space was full. Unbeknownst to each other, both parents are circling the building trying to find a place to park so they can retrieve their son.
While my son-in-law was still circling in the Pontiac, in desperation my daughter drove her SUV onto the sidewalk. You have heard of speed traps? This was a parking trap. When there are absolutely no places to park, the parking patrol comes out. So the minute she stopped her car, a campus policeman drove up behind her and parked his vehicle in a red zone.
He got out of his patrol car and approached my daughter.
“Do you know that you are parked on the sidewalk?”
Do you know how many different and equally damaging replies there could be to that question?
Do you know how tempting it would be to utter one of them? My daughter is a comic and she had to pinch her lips to keep from giving voice to one of these:
“Oh, was that the curb I just ran over?”
“Well, I did notice that I wasn't in line with the other cars, but it is kind of dark out here.”
“Do you know you are parked in a red zone?”
After it was established that she knew she was parked on the sidewalk, the officer had another question for her.
“Why are you parked on the sidewalk?
Again, do you know how tempting it would be to give a smart-aleck answer such as:
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“I couldn't help it, my car is one of those that parallel parks itself and it insisted on this spot.”
“ I didn't have a quarter for the parking meter—oh wait, there aren't any parking meters without cars next to them within three blocks.”
Meanwhile her husband, on his next drive-by, noticed that she had been pulled over, so to speak. He quickly parked in a handicapped space and came running over to rescue his wife. When he asked what the problem was, he was greeted with, “Do you know that you are parked in a handicapped zone?” Presumably the officer noticed that my son-in-law was pretty fast on his feet and didn't seem to be handicapped, at least physically.
He answered the officer's question in a direct and respectful manner. “Yes, I do. I was just checking on my wife.”
“You need to move that car immediately, or I will give both of you a ticket.”
Reasoning that one ticket was better than two, he ran back to his car and drove away before the officer had time to open his citation book.
My daughter did try to explain her situation, but she doubted whether the policeman believed any of it. After all, she is pretty sure that she doesn't look old enough to have a son in college.
At least that is the case when his parents are dropping him off. They just drive up to the area in question and let him out the door. Picking him up is a different story, however, because they might have to park and wait for him to emerge from whichever building he is in.
This is a long-established university which means that when it was built years ago, there was no need for multiple parking spaces. I don't know whether there were any cars back then. Students probably lived on campus and could walk to all their classes.
That is no longer the case. You probably have heard more than one campus-parking horror story. Their main theme of them is that there isn't any—campus parking that is.
So the other night, my grandson was driven up to the campus by a friend, and his parents didn't know exactly where to meet him to pick him up. To make matters worse, the power was out and dad's cell phone was down.
Consequently, both dad and mom were at the college in separate cars trying to find and pick up their student without out the aid of phones or street lighting. It was the week before finals and the engineering building was full of students completing semester projects. Every one of those students had brought a car on campus, and every parking space was full. Unbeknownst to each other, both parents are circling the building trying to find a place to park so they can retrieve their son.
While my son-in-law was still circling in the Pontiac, in desperation my daughter drove her SUV onto the sidewalk. You have heard of speed traps? This was a parking trap. When there are absolutely no places to park, the parking patrol comes out. So the minute she stopped her car, a campus policeman drove up behind her and parked his vehicle in a red zone.
He got out of his patrol car and approached my daughter.
“Do you know that you are parked on the sidewalk?”
Do you know how many different and equally damaging replies there could be to that question?
Do you know how tempting it would be to utter one of them? My daughter is a comic and she had to pinch her lips to keep from giving voice to one of these:
“Oh, was that the curb I just ran over?”
“Well, I did notice that I wasn't in line with the other cars, but it is kind of dark out here.”
“Do you know you are parked in a red zone?”
After it was established that she knew she was parked on the sidewalk, the officer had another question for her.
“Why are you parked on the sidewalk?
Again, do you know how tempting it would be to give a smart-aleck answer such as:
“Do you really want me to answer that question?”
“I couldn't help it, my car is one of those that parallel parks itself and it insisted on this spot.”
“ I didn't have a quarter for the parking meter—oh wait, there aren't any parking meters without cars next to them within three blocks.”
Meanwhile her husband, on his next drive-by, noticed that she had been pulled over, so to speak. He quickly parked in a handicapped space and came running over to rescue his wife. When he asked what the problem was, he was greeted with, “Do you know that you are parked in a handicapped zone?” Presumably the officer noticed that my son-in-law was pretty fast on his feet and didn't seem to be handicapped, at least physically.
He answered the officer's question in a direct and respectful manner. “Yes, I do. I was just checking on my wife.”
“You need to move that car immediately, or I will give both of you a ticket.”
Reasoning that one ticket was better than two, he ran back to his car and drove away before the officer had time to open his citation book.
My daughter did try to explain her situation, but she doubted whether the policeman believed any of it. After all, she is pretty sure that she doesn't look old enough to have a son in college.
Watching kids' soccer is winning
In the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of soccer. The balls come out of the closet and the kids, boys and girls, start to kick them around; they bring home the notes for soccer sign-up and before you know it, the soccer moms and their families are huddled up in the cold and wind watching kids in shorts running around trying to keep warm. Of course the parents are only able to sit and shiver helplessly.
That is just part of the fun of soccer. When weather isn't a deterrent, it can be quite entertaining. I will hereby recount a few of the more amusing incidents I have seen and heard of lately.
The story of this last week was about the game where one of the 8-year-old teams was short a few players and the other team had more than they needed when it came time to play. So the coaches put their heads together and evened things out by sending a couple of the players from the red team onto the blue team so everyone could have fun. The blue team must have been missing their goalie that morning because they put a transplant player into the goal.
It took three kicks on goal before anyone realized that the goalie didn't make a move when there was a goal kick. And it took a few more plays before anyone older than ten realized why. Sometimes the kids are smarter than the adults who just might be a few sides short of a pentagram, that is on any given day.
The week before that my grandson had the dubious honor of playing goalie in his game. He took one for the team when he fearlessly blocked a short goal kick with his face. Well, actually he didn't have time to get out of the way. His injuries included a looser tooth, a bloody nose, and a puffy face.
It turned out to be all for the good though since the loose tooth was one that had been hanging in that mouth too long anyway. Later that evening our movie, Sherlock Holmes, was interrupted in the middle of the “London Bridge” scene in order for us to hear a dramatic announcement.
The kid comes running into the room yelling excitedly, “pause the movie, pause the movie.”
“No, it's almost over.”
“But this is important.” He is now jumping up and down and waving his arms more energetically than he ever did in the soccer goal. We paused the movie.
“What is it?”
“I pulled my tooth.” The benefits of soccer.
Then there is the story of the goalie who caught a goal kick and duly trotted out to the front of the goal box. She faced the field and quickly dropkicked the ball. It was a pretty good kick if you discount the direction it took. It arched neatly up and over her head and rolled straight into her own goal behind her.
Finally, my daughter told me about a game which was refereed by young teenagers, two boys and a girl. One of the player's fathers thought he could make a difference in the score of the game, which wasn't scored anyway, by bleep-bleeping the referees and the other team's players.
The obnoxious father had been warned to clean up his language and be quiet, but he continued to blaspheme the name of referees everywhere. Finally the girl walked over to the mouthy dad and told him he had to leave. He refused and got a little louder. The two boy referees decided she might need a little help and came along to back her up.
“If you do not leave, I will call this game.”
“Yeah. What she said,” piped up the boys.
The father left. He didn't just walk away however. He ambled from his position in one corner of the field, across it to the opposite corner, before he was finally gone. The game continued peacefully for about two minutes until Soccer Man returned with his mother, who must have been the one who taught him to talk, and his wife. Three against three. So the ruckus escalated.
Miss Referee had put up with enough. She strode over to the three and told them she was going to call the game. The grandmother in turn called her a name, which is not fit to print, and said that furthermore she couldn't talk to her like that.
So, game over. The two teams cheered each other, and everyone went home; and that is where some people should stay.
That is just part of the fun of soccer. When weather isn't a deterrent, it can be quite entertaining. I will hereby recount a few of the more amusing incidents I have seen and heard of lately.
The story of this last week was about the game where one of the 8-year-old teams was short a few players and the other team had more than they needed when it came time to play. So the coaches put their heads together and evened things out by sending a couple of the players from the red team onto the blue team so everyone could have fun. The blue team must have been missing their goalie that morning because they put a transplant player into the goal.
It took three kicks on goal before anyone realized that the goalie didn't make a move when there was a goal kick. And it took a few more plays before anyone older than ten realized why. Sometimes the kids are smarter than the adults who just might be a few sides short of a pentagram, that is on any given day.
The week before that my grandson had the dubious honor of playing goalie in his game. He took one for the team when he fearlessly blocked a short goal kick with his face. Well, actually he didn't have time to get out of the way. His injuries included a looser tooth, a bloody nose, and a puffy face.
It turned out to be all for the good though since the loose tooth was one that had been hanging in that mouth too long anyway. Later that evening our movie, Sherlock Holmes, was interrupted in the middle of the “London Bridge” scene in order for us to hear a dramatic announcement.
The kid comes running into the room yelling excitedly, “pause the movie, pause the movie.”
“No, it's almost over.”
“But this is important.” He is now jumping up and down and waving his arms more energetically than he ever did in the soccer goal. We paused the movie.
“What is it?”
“I pulled my tooth.” The benefits of soccer.
Then there is the story of the goalie who caught a goal kick and duly trotted out to the front of the goal box. She faced the field and quickly dropkicked the ball. It was a pretty good kick if you discount the direction it took. It arched neatly up and over her head and rolled straight into her own goal behind her.
Finally, my daughter told me about a game which was refereed by young teenagers, two boys and a girl. One of the player's fathers thought he could make a difference in the score of the game, which wasn't scored anyway, by bleep-bleeping the referees and the other team's players.
The obnoxious father had been warned to clean up his language and be quiet, but he continued to blaspheme the name of referees everywhere. Finally the girl walked over to the mouthy dad and told him he had to leave. He refused and got a little louder. The two boy referees decided she might need a little help and came along to back her up.
“If you do not leave, I will call this game.”
“Yeah. What she said,” piped up the boys.
The father left. He didn't just walk away however. He ambled from his position in one corner of the field, across it to the opposite corner, before he was finally gone. The game continued peacefully for about two minutes until Soccer Man returned with his mother, who must have been the one who taught him to talk, and his wife. Three against three. So the ruckus escalated.
Miss Referee had put up with enough. She strode over to the three and told them she was going to call the game. The grandmother in turn called her a name, which is not fit to print, and said that furthermore she couldn't talk to her like that.
So, game over. The two teams cheered each other, and everyone went home; and that is where some people should stay.
Bertha gets her feet wet
It seems that I made a little ripple in the Facebook pond last weekend when I surprised my kids, who are now my friends, by setting up an account. They thought I would never take the plunge. I wasn't holding out because I had any issues, moral or otherwise, with Facebooking. It was just that I didn't see the point. Anything I wanted to say to someone could be typed into an email, and the recipient could then be called on the phone and told to read his/her email.
Signing up was a pretty slick process. Only took a couple of minutes and cost nothing other than what I send to my internet provider monthly plus the cost of a computer and a modem, a monitor, keyboard, mouse, camera, etc. etc. So nearly free; but since I am paying or have paid for all that stuff anyway, I reasoned that I didn't have much to lose.
I have never heard of it happening, but I suppose I could always get myself off Facebook pretty quickly also. However, I wouldn't recommend even five minutes of it for anyone in the government witness program.
After the quick initial setup , I found a perfectly nondescript boring picture of myself which I had to crop out of a group shot using a fairly cheap program—Photoshop, which I also did have anyway.
In the time it took me to do that, I had 41 new friends with messages from two of them which was amazing considering it was 11 p.m., Mountain Standard Time, and 1 a.m. where one of them originated.
They both said that they didn't think I would ever do it, and that they just about fell off their office furniture when they saw me on Facebook. If I were still waffling at that point, I gave it up when message number two informed me that if I had any doubts, I could let them go because being on Facebook was the best way to check up on my kids. It could be true. For the duration that I am “on” Facebook, my kids are my friends.
Well, to tell the truth, there actually was one small issue that kept me from getting my feet wet sooner. I didn't want to set any records for “least amount of friends on Facebook” or anything. My daughter had 431 friends as of Friday, and that is quite a bit of pressure there. However I have a big family and I could probably twist some arms if it got too embarrassing. But when I found I could collect 41 friends in fifteen minutes, I began to rest easier and enjoy the experience. Right now I have friends that I have never even heard of.
Wait, I do remember stories about people being defriended, hidden or blocked. I think that my other daughter was friends with someone for exactly two hours and four minutes when she was defriended. That is another record I might have to worry about setting.
So, I mentioned that my photo was unoriginal. I have some pressure in that area, too. One daughter has a cute cartoon for her profile picture and another one uses a photo of her laying on the pavement inside of one of those outlines that crime investigators paint around dead bodies. She was in New York City at the time. By the way, have I mentioned any sons yet? No? I didn't think so.
So the gauntlet has been thrown in the photo department. I do have an old photo of me on top of the Middle Teton. Yes, it's real. I already said it was old. Hey, some people put their baby pictures on there don't they? I can't think of anything else remarkable that I have photos of—well actually that I don't have photos of either, for that matter. Lately I have been more apt to stay out of photos when I can.
So when I get my wall page spiffed up and get my friends lined up, I will be all set. I will be all set to…to do what, I'm not sure. This is where “I don't get the point” comes in. If I post my status a few times, people will begin to understand why I went so long without Facebook. If I post too many photos of me in a rocking chair, they will know for sure.
And, I can only check up on my kids so many times in one day.
Signing up was a pretty slick process. Only took a couple of minutes and cost nothing other than what I send to my internet provider monthly plus the cost of a computer and a modem, a monitor, keyboard, mouse, camera, etc. etc. So nearly free; but since I am paying or have paid for all that stuff anyway, I reasoned that I didn't have much to lose.
I have never heard of it happening, but I suppose I could always get myself off Facebook pretty quickly also. However, I wouldn't recommend even five minutes of it for anyone in the government witness program.
After the quick initial setup , I found a perfectly nondescript boring picture of myself which I had to crop out of a group shot using a fairly cheap program—Photoshop, which I also did have anyway.
In the time it took me to do that, I had 41 new friends with messages from two of them which was amazing considering it was 11 p.m., Mountain Standard Time, and 1 a.m. where one of them originated.
They both said that they didn't think I would ever do it, and that they just about fell off their office furniture when they saw me on Facebook. If I were still waffling at that point, I gave it up when message number two informed me that if I had any doubts, I could let them go because being on Facebook was the best way to check up on my kids. It could be true. For the duration that I am “on” Facebook, my kids are my friends.
Well, to tell the truth, there actually was one small issue that kept me from getting my feet wet sooner. I didn't want to set any records for “least amount of friends on Facebook” or anything. My daughter had 431 friends as of Friday, and that is quite a bit of pressure there. However I have a big family and I could probably twist some arms if it got too embarrassing. But when I found I could collect 41 friends in fifteen minutes, I began to rest easier and enjoy the experience. Right now I have friends that I have never even heard of.
Wait, I do remember stories about people being defriended, hidden or blocked. I think that my other daughter was friends with someone for exactly two hours and four minutes when she was defriended. That is another record I might have to worry about setting.
So, I mentioned that my photo was unoriginal. I have some pressure in that area, too. One daughter has a cute cartoon for her profile picture and another one uses a photo of her laying on the pavement inside of one of those outlines that crime investigators paint around dead bodies. She was in New York City at the time. By the way, have I mentioned any sons yet? No? I didn't think so.
So the gauntlet has been thrown in the photo department. I do have an old photo of me on top of the Middle Teton. Yes, it's real. I already said it was old. Hey, some people put their baby pictures on there don't they? I can't think of anything else remarkable that I have photos of—well actually that I don't have photos of either, for that matter. Lately I have been more apt to stay out of photos when I can.
So when I get my wall page spiffed up and get my friends lined up, I will be all set. I will be all set to…to do what, I'm not sure. This is where “I don't get the point” comes in. If I post my status a few times, people will begin to understand why I went so long without Facebook. If I post too many photos of me in a rocking chair, they will know for sure.
And, I can only check up on my kids so many times in one day.
The return of, ahem, Frankenstein
I hate to admit it to the younger readers in my audience, if I have any, but I have lived long enough to witness the rise and fall of more than a few different items from cultural grace—some of them more than once.
One example that comes to mind is bell-bottom pants. Lest any generation try to take too much credit for them, I believe they were first worn by navy sailors. Which navy and how long ago, I couldn't say, but they did not just appear on the scene in the Sixties because Pierre Cardin had a light bulb moment.
It was the counter-culture Hippies who wore them first. First after the sailors, that is. They sometimes made their own by inserting triangles of colorful fabrics into the outside seams of jeans below the knees. So their pedigree (the bell bottoms') is a tiny bit tainted anyway. Don't worry. I wore them, because they soon made their way into mainstream fashion.
Before they left that scene, though, they had morphed into polyester bells, and then into the polyester leisure suit. Since polyester could be and was made in any wild color or pattern imaginable, it caught on in a hurry in that nonconformist
atmosphere. Too big a hurry. And it was cheap. Too cheap. All of that accounts for the sleazy connotation that goes along with polyester itself. I wore it too. It was a great invention—you didn't have to iron it. But by the late 70's only used car salesmen and great-grannies wore polyester anything.
The contemporary trend of “how low can you go,” low-riding pants may seem like a recent phenomena, but they are nothing more than over-the-top (yeah right) versions of the hip-hugger bell-bottom pants that were popular in the 60's and 70's.
And I was supposed to be excited about their return? And the polyester, too? Not only was the style stale for anyone over fifty, but I looked much better in it the first time around.
Colors schemes in dress and decoration are also wicked in their ability to date an outfit or a home. One that has come and gone is the mauve and gray color combo of the 80's. If there was ever any color combo that dated a living room, it is that one.
I am so glad that we didn't build a house in the 80's because I would have done that then, and had I done so, unfortunately I would still probably have mauve carpet today. I have noticed that it is making a comeback in some venues. Even so, I won't be getting mauve carpet. Everyone who has already lived through the 80's won't be that impressed.
I am not a fashion guru; I know that. Some of the fashions I see I don't even have a name for, and a few of the reruns weren't gone long enough for me to notice. But that makes them really old by now, doesn't it?
Lately, at least, designers have had the grace to put the word “retro” in their narrative somewhere instead of trying to take credit for a rerun.
My kids wonder why I don't get very excited about this or that fashion, or color, or new idea while they act like they invented the latest thing themselves. “I was the first one in Utah to have them; I know it.” (My daughter who lived in the “granola years” actually said that about her first pair of Birkenstocks.)
Whatever. That would be me. I had them the first time they came around, not the second or third. Only they were Dr. Scholl's exercise sandals.
One example that comes to mind is bell-bottom pants. Lest any generation try to take too much credit for them, I believe they were first worn by navy sailors. Which navy and how long ago, I couldn't say, but they did not just appear on the scene in the Sixties because Pierre Cardin had a light bulb moment.
It was the counter-culture Hippies who wore them first. First after the sailors, that is. They sometimes made their own by inserting triangles of colorful fabrics into the outside seams of jeans below the knees. So their pedigree (the bell bottoms') is a tiny bit tainted anyway. Don't worry. I wore them, because they soon made their way into mainstream fashion.
Before they left that scene, though, they had morphed into polyester bells, and then into the polyester leisure suit. Since polyester could be and was made in any wild color or pattern imaginable, it caught on in a hurry in that nonconformist
atmosphere. Too big a hurry. And it was cheap. Too cheap. All of that accounts for the sleazy connotation that goes along with polyester itself. I wore it too. It was a great invention—you didn't have to iron it. But by the late 70's only used car salesmen and great-grannies wore polyester anything.
The contemporary trend of “how low can you go,” low-riding pants may seem like a recent phenomena, but they are nothing more than over-the-top (yeah right) versions of the hip-hugger bell-bottom pants that were popular in the 60's and 70's.
And I was supposed to be excited about their return? And the polyester, too? Not only was the style stale for anyone over fifty, but I looked much better in it the first time around.
Colors schemes in dress and decoration are also wicked in their ability to date an outfit or a home. One that has come and gone is the mauve and gray color combo of the 80's. If there was ever any color combo that dated a living room, it is that one.
I am so glad that we didn't build a house in the 80's because I would have done that then, and had I done so, unfortunately I would still probably have mauve carpet today. I have noticed that it is making a comeback in some venues. Even so, I won't be getting mauve carpet. Everyone who has already lived through the 80's won't be that impressed.
I am not a fashion guru; I know that. Some of the fashions I see I don't even have a name for, and a few of the reruns weren't gone long enough for me to notice. But that makes them really old by now, doesn't it?
Lately, at least, designers have had the grace to put the word “retro” in their narrative somewhere instead of trying to take credit for a rerun.
My kids wonder why I don't get very excited about this or that fashion, or color, or new idea while they act like they invented the latest thing themselves. “I was the first one in Utah to have them; I know it.” (My daughter who lived in the “granola years” actually said that about her first pair of Birkenstocks.)
Whatever. That would be me. I had them the first time they came around, not the second or third. Only they were Dr. Scholl's exercise sandals.
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