Welcome to 10 Years Ago!

I got a smartphone.

You're thinking, pfft, big deal, I get a new smartphone every time my contract renews, blah, blah, big deal.

But no, this is a big deal.  It's my first smartphone.

I'll give you a moment to stop laughing.

I like to think of myself as current, up to date, one with the new-fangled gizmos.  I love technology - we have several tablets, multiple computery devices, and high speed internet.  But then I remember that I'm mostly a crotchety old lady who would prefer it if you stay off my lawn.  I have to face the facts that my children probably know more than I do about the latest technology, or at least we're coming to that crossroads very, very soon, and there's no turning back.  But that's as it should be.  One day, they will be exasperatedly trying to explain how their new hover board works, and I'll be all, back in the day, we had to use our legs to get from place to place, and that's the correct order of things.  Doesn't mean I won't appreciate new things (where is my jet pack already).

You totally want to pat my head and say, Sweetie, the smartphone is not a new thing, don't you?  And you would be absolutely correct.  I admit I have be stubbornly hanging onto the notion that I could get by in this day and age without one, but that's only part of the equation.  I am also unbearably cheap and didn't want to pay for it.  This is news to exactly nobody: I hate spending money.  Aren't you glad you're not married to me?

However, I have coveted a smartphone for years.  I just couldn't pull the trigger.  I had a super cheap cell phone that did the bare minimum.  I had a small tablet I could keep in my purse and use whenever I needed it.  I even had an iPod I could slip in a pocket to use as a camera.  Didn't all these things do the job of a smartphone.  Well, yes.  And not exactly.  And it all made my purse really heavy.  Plus, it got really annoying watching my dad upgrade to the latest phone over and over and use it as... a phone and not much else.  I knew I could do I better job as a smartphone owner. (Hi, Dad! Love you!)

What was the breaking point?  If I have to pick an impetus, I would say it's an upcoming excursion in which 14 of my closest family members will be traveling together and need to be able to find one another when we're spread out doing various and sundry things.  But that's just part of the picture.  As my kids grow and get more involved at school and in extracurricular activities, so am I.  And how does the school communicate?  How do the other parents communicate?  Through texts and tweets and status updates that I apparently need to read (in the midst of all the other detritus on the internet) (including this) (but certainly not including you - you are the most important part of the internet, yes and truly).  I've been missing out and falling behind.  Do you know how much easier  smartphone would have made my being Girl Scout cookie mom? (Yes, I was cookie mom.  Or rather, Cookie Czar, if you please.)  Soooo much easier. 

And so, after much exhaustive research (exhaustive for my husband who was so tired of my hemming and hawing), I bit the bullet and got my own handy dandy handheld talking computer machine.  And for grins, old Hub got one, too.  Now I can pester him with texts and pictures all the live long day.  Aren't you glad now, Chris?

If you've made it this far, I hope you're at least giving me a slow clap for finally joining this century.  Heck, I give one to myself.  My super power is procrastination.

That said, I'm on the lookout for text buddies.  I'm pretty sure my husband will figure out he can turn off his phone pretty quickly and I'll be out of luck.

Bunny Ears

I meant to post this last week when it was National Lefthanders Day (what, you didn't know about this all-important holiday? Hmph), but, you know, life.  And extreme laziness.  As it goes.

Right here I'm admitting to a giant parenting fail in that (up until very recently, which you'll see in a moment), my children did not know how to tie.  Flog me with a shoelace that they both got out of kindergarten without this particular skill (wasn't that a kinder-requirement when we were kids?).  I  blame velcro.  And extreme laziness.

Anyway, for eons, I've been begging people to help me teach Sammy because I am left handed and he is right handed and I just could not figure out how to teach him without confusing us both all to Hades.  And thus we reached this summer knotless.  But! Sabrina is left handed, too!  This is my department!  So I started teaching her.  And we got supremely confused.  I consulted Dr. You Tube.  And got even more confused.  But I knew I would persevere, if only through dogged and unending annoyance of my youngest.

Then one evening, we were at my parents', and I began lamenting (again) the situation.  Well, my dad had enough of that, grabbed a shoe, and started showing some kid (take your pick, I don't remember who was in the room and from his perspective, he didn't really care as long as he had a warm body listening) while I watched.  And that's when I noticed what he was doing was exactly the same thing I was doing, looping with the left, crossing over with the right, pulling through with the left again.  Wait a minute - this wasn't the mirror image I expected to see.  Did that mean that I - the ultimate lefty so left my left eye, ear, and foot are dominant as well - tie right handed?  Whoa Nelly!

And then it dawned on me. Duh.  I have 2 right handed parents.  They taught me to tie.  They only know one way to do so.  And thus, I tie right handed.  I could have taught Sammy long ago (never mind the confusion and inability to teach issues).  Grrrrrrrr.

Ultimately, my dad bribed each kid with a 5 dollar bill to learn in a week.  They did, they got their money, the end.

On to teaching Sabrina how to ride a bicycle.  Pray for me.

I'm Getting Kiddie-Sick and Hub's Getting Old

I know I should update this here spot, but I’m still recovering from a bout of strep throat, so I’m a tad behind on, oh, everything. Plus, I’m trying to throw together a little soiree to celebrate The Hub’s imminent milestone (read: OLD). Excuses, excuses, blah, blah, blah.

Yes, I have been stalwartly forging my way through an illness I haven’t had since elementary school. Fun. And! Oh, and, this is the second time. I believe I mentioned Round #1 a few months back, which I called not-strep strep throat, and here we are again. With the not-strep strep throat. Because apparently, I am not just mentally contrarian, I am physically contrarian, too, and can’t register a positive, conclusive test result even when the doctor sticks a tongue depressor in my mouth and says, “No matter what the test says, that is classic strep to me, and I’m treating you for that.” And, thank God, really, because a big dose of antibiotics was exactly what I needed to knock me completely out for a 36 hour period and allow me to wake up and remember what feeling human is like again. Now, if said antibiotic could have been administered in a manner that didn’t involve a horse needle and my keester, that would have been better. Ouch.

So, onward to party time. I offered to Hub-man that I’d accommodate his birthday wishes if at all possible, but since he never really did spell out those specific wishes (save for some new Mach 3 razor blades and a Sam’s Club sized box of gum – People, get on that), I took it upon myself to whip up this little shindig. I told him upfront a surprise party wasn’t happening, because, well, it’s not. It’ll be a nice afternoon of beer, wine, and noshy bits, peppered with stories about is distant, long ago, way back childhood illustrating just how old he is (and while I may eventually achieve the age he is, I will never he as old as he is). I’m thinking of getting him a walker.

Problem is, he doesn’t seem to register his advanced years. He asked for a bouncy house, for heaven’s sake. For the kids, he says. Oh please, I say. I’m having visions of drunken bouncy Fight Club, ending with a puncture that makes my deposit disappear forever. Along with unquantifiable medical bills for broken hips and slipped discs and whatever else old people get when they think they still have their youth. So to all you people thinking this is a fabulous fun idea: you can send me the deposit and we’ll see how it goes. And mind you, the video goes straight to You Tube.

Out of Hiding

So, I hear today is an official day to delurk out there in internet world. I, myself, am a champion lurker. I love love LOVE to read blogs and journals and diaries and whatever else the kids are calling them these days, and I admire each and every one of the writers for their talents, their creativity, their voices, and their courage. That’s what inspired me to want my own in the first place, and ultimately got me off my rump to finally start a year and a day ago (man, I really wish I could say 3, 4, 5 years ago, but I procrastinated just that much I am so sad). I do not feel I live up to any of my inspirations, but I will continue to try, because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you have to put yourself out there to get anywhere.

I tend not to comment for the same reason it took me so very (very) long to start this blog/site/diary/whatever: I want what I say to be perfect, witty, and the best thing every written. Of course, that’s an impossible position to put myself in, and I end up in a cycle of lurking and wishing instead of doing what I just said above and put myself out there. In the spirit of the day, I have delurked a little bit (baby steps), and if you feel so inclined, please do the same. If you need a starting point (as I often do), please tell me about your favorite spot in the United States. I sure would appreciate it. Because as much as I am a wuss about leaving comments (something I promise to work on so I can let people know when they’re being awesome), I really like getting them

Go tell your favorite online writers what you think of them.

Unplanned Hiatus

We made it back from our trip in one piece, and miraculously, with everything we brought with us (the sheer volume of which was ridiculous for 3 days). My dad, my very own personal Geek Squad (and don't think I'm thankful for that every single day - thanks, Dad!), decided to fancy-pants up our computer while we were away. Fantastic. However, it appears my house needs an internet exorcism, because 2 - count'em, 1-2 - computer that work just fine in other houses go completely wacky nuts in mine. Seriously. Dad's house: fine. My house: total wonkfest. Back to Dad's house: happy skippy.

My only explanation is that I must live on top of a giant pocket of energy or magnetism akin to the island on Lost. This might not be so bad if a shirtless Sawyer would show up in my backyard, but no such sighting as yet.

As such, we're borrowing another of my dad's arsenal of computers for the time being (this one is working, but cross your fingers anyway). I'm loathe to save too much to this hard drive, given the propensity for crashes under this roof and the distinct possibility of forgetting what I saved where and not being able to put Jack and Jill back together, so to speak. So new stuffs may be few and far between for the time being. Please forgive but don't forget, enjoy your extra minutes, and I'll be back soon.

Does It Have My Credit Card Number, Too?

At some point in childhood, lots of kids think of their closets as sources of magic, portals to exotic locations both real and fantasy. Ultimately, this can be an excellent source of imagination development, and soon the closet resumes its original purpose of closet storage, with the added bonus of housing whatever other crap that can be stuffed inside. But today, I have evidence that the closet of my youth is magic. It is a generator. Of completely random stuff.

Over the years, my mom would make a comment about the various things I’d left in that closet. To be honest, I didn’t really miss anything that might have been in there, so I didn’t really pay attention (sorry, Mom). But this week, she noticed that the upper shelf had started a slow decent toward the floor. That was her perspective anyway, that the shelf had finally broken. I can’t remember when it actually cracked off the wall the first time, but I think it was back in high school. I could handle a hammer and knew where Dad kept the tools. (Again, sorry Mom.)

Unfortunately for me, just nailing the shelf back up and shoving the miscellaneous contents back on top it is wasn’t an option for my mother. She decided to clean out the closet. And in doing so, she would transfer said contents to its original owner. Oh no.

When she started listing the items she’d found over the phone, I couldn’t remember anything. Not a single thing. A fancy glass serving tray. A cookbook with recipes from diners across America. Fully wrapped Christmas gifts with Post-it notes designating the intended recipients. Huh? Where did all of this stuff come from?

The answer is obvious. The closet is making stuff. Either that or it has a terrible and bizarre shopping addiction that it’s trying to pin on me. And it’s succeeding. At this moment, I have no fewer than 4 giant boxes in the trunk of my car with everything my closet decided I needed in it. I’m too scared to bring it in the house in case it carries this stuff-generating germ that will infect the closets here, and God help us because we are totally out of room and can’t handle new stuff indiscriminately showing up to take up space.

I’m trying to look at this from the bright side. I think I just cut my annual gift budget in half.

But Mom should have an exorcism for that closet, just in case.

Finally

After spending far too long (ahem, 6 years) not-so-secretly wanting to join these here Internets, I've actually stopped dipping my little toes and decided to cannonball into the pool. This isn't all that difficult, and I feel like a complete idiot for waiting so long, I can only chalk it up to my special cocktail of neuroses that I'm now sharing. Anyone care for a beverage?

I can only suspect that I'll come down with a raging case of writer's block now.