CSquaredPlus3

Mom "Likes" Facebook

There are already too many jokes about our parents -- the senior set in general -- adapting to social media.  Just when some older people are comfortable consistently using email, we say... "Never mind. Start a blog.  Tweet.  Get on Facebook.  It's fun!"

My mother took the Facebook plunge.  Dad's holding strong.  I believe hell really will freeze over before he signs up for an account.

I talked her into it.  Poor thing.  I wore her down during a visit last November.  "It's SO easy.  We'll be able to share pictures.  You can keep track of Joe [my brother] and you'll find treasures in rekindled relationships from the past."

Mom bought the idea as I lied to myself as much as her.  Facebook is a time sucking, angst causing, self-esteem crushing, bizarre life distraction.  [Just me?]  It's like the bowl of M&M's and Hot Tamales on my kitchen counter -- for guests, of course.  I should have a piece of fruit or handful of almonds for a snack, but there sits that damn bowl of temptation.  At the end of some days, I've grabbed too many of the wrong things and I feel oily.  Too much candy... and too many clicks of the refresh/reload button on Facebook.  Loser.

So, Mom and I set up her Facebook account, selected a cute photo of her and started looking for all of her old boyfriends and that one girl who was mean to her in high school.  I alerted my brother immediately.

Joe has yet to reply.  It's been five months.

I told Mom that it's important to make an occasional appearance on Facebook.  Lurkers are boring and selfish.  [Harsh words from someone who lurks.]  I encouraged her to, at a minimum, comment on friends' photos.  So she tried.  I posted a picture of my sons and Mom accidentally updated her status.

Mom has made additional attempts on Facebook over the past few months.  I've seen her wish people a happy birthday and she enjoys the "Like" button.  But she still gets confused.  While trying to comment on something my cousin wrote, she again updated her own status.

I let my cousin know.

 

Mom's traveling to Utah to visit us in a few weeks.  I told her we would spend a little time practicing our Facebook skills.  Writing status updates, commenting, liking, removing comments, un-liking and polishing our personal brands in case we've screwed up our privacy settings... again.

In the meantime:

• Keep trying!

• Positive comments are never a bad thing and the safest for beginners.

• When in doubt, don't hit "Enter".

• And above ALL, if Dad ever joins us on Facebook [he won't], never ever, never refer to him as "babe".

What's our vector, Victor?

The first entry in my 2011 journal...

I also have specific writing goals, as well as general/specific personal and family goals.  I don't feel the need to share here, but Chris has reviewed my lists and has agreed to be my accountability partner. 

NOTE:  If you show me yours, I'll show you mine.  Email me.  I've always been a good cheerleader.  I may not be able to do the splits or a Herkie any longer, but I'll pull a hammy trying.

The last few months of 2010 I didn't blog much.  Pretend the following are appropriate-length, funny, moving, entertaining [with attached photos and/or video] blog posts:

• Completed the Triple Trail Challenge for the second time.  Over. It.
• Got my braces off. [Pictures to come in a future post.]
• Finished writing a book.  [I'm waiting to hear from a publisher and considering the next step.]
• Dealt with a health issue.  I'm going to live but am recovering from numbness on my right side.  [Seriously.  I totally had an MRI of my brain, and was able to prove to Chris that my mind is perfectly healthy... and genius.]
• Celebrated my sons' birthdays.
• Chris and I cranked out another one, completing our 21st year of marriage.
• Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas -- check, check, check.
• Maintenance of relationships was poor, but real friends/family/people understand.

**********

The five-year-old boy has already accomplished a 2011 goal.  He learned to whistle.  He's usually the last person in our house to wake up in the morning.  He likes to creep down the stairs and startle me.  I allow this to happen even though I hear his bedroom door open and feel his little presence behind me.  And now I have to pretend I don't hear him whistling from the time he lifts his head off the pillow until he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

**********

I'll share the summary and affirmation paragraph from the Twenty-Eleven Goals entry in my journal.  You have permission to roll your eyes, remind me of my words when I bitch about them, join me in the cheesefest, or... nothing.

I've decided to add one more specific goal to my personal list.  I'm going to teach the 5YO boy to whistle with his two fingers in his mouth.  Just watch.

Happy New Year.

The Moose And The Fireman

The moose in the neighbor's yard this morning was a bit exciting and entertaining, I have to admit.  I oohed and gasped and watched his every move... for TWO hours.  I know.  Get. A. Life.  But, this IS my life, people.

I contemplated writing a lengthy story about the moose, chronicling every riveting detail of his arrival, the police surveillance, the gathering of neighbors, children and strangers in a kind woman's master bedroom and bathroom so we could all get a closer look, and the eventual tranquilization and removal of the large animal.  But, after viewing the STUPID number of photographs I took and the nearly FIFTY minutes of Flip video, it's just not that riveting anymore.

Here's a quick photo recap...  The moose! [I was outside on the sidewalk for this picture.]

 

The moose stared at us staring at him through the window.  We all looked at each other for a very long time.  It was like being at the zoo.  Like I said, riveting. [Photo taken while in my neighbor's bedroom with several other people.]

 

Once the moose was tranquilized [a shooter hit him and the drug took effect exceptionally fast], they had to slide him onto a tarp so he could be transported across the snow to a trailer.

 

Notice the cameraman from a local news station walking backwards as he films.

 

The sedated moose resting in the trailer.  He was feeling no pain.

 

I wasn't going to blog about this, because... you know... boring.  But in the final five minutes of the moose ordeal, a young fireman made my day with two surprisingly witty comments.

Witty Number One
As the curious, worried and adrenalin-fueled neighbor children gathered around the moose while it lay in the trailer, the helpful, young fireman cleared his throat and spoke to them...Now remember, kids. THIS is why we DON'T play with matches.

Witty Number Two
I took some final photos and noticed the moose was trembling.  Oh, poor thing.  He's shaking.  The helpful, young fireman looked at me and said, "That's a goood shake.  It's morphine."

Gus

Theodore and Catherine arrived at the bar halfway into my first glass of a mediocre Cabernet.  I had been the only one there up until that point.  My two oldest sons were happily playing air hockey and video games just down the hall of the ski resort where we were staying; we were killing time before dinner.

I had enjoyed talking with Cindy, the very interesting 28-year-old bartender.  I smiled when one of her co-workers handed her a Grolsch bottle and told her it was his latest homebrew.  She was instructed to please return the bottle when she was finished with the beer.  Cindy said, "Hell, yeah.  Thanks."

Theodore was wearing a sportcoat.  That should say it all.  We were at a bar, next to a Mexican food restaurant, an arcade down the hall, at a Utah ski resort technically still off-season.  People were skiing, but the snow was poor.  Theodore pulled a chair out for his wife, leaving an empty chair between the two of them and me.

Over the next thirty minutes, I learned how Theodore hates to be called Ted or Theo and Catherine isn't a fan of Cate or Cathy.  They had two teenage kids who were up in their rooms because they were tired from their private snowboarding lessons and "...just had to have sushi."  *obnoxious chuckle*  The family was from Los Angeles.  Theodore told me about the runs he'd skied and how he's a lover of powder.  I think he's skied nearly every mountain in the U.S. and in Europe, per Theodore himself.  He told me he grew up in Europe and misses the loong runs of European mountains.

Theodore and Catherine... bugged me.  Theodore talked too much about money, clearly a man who's ego was fueled and identity defined by his income and bank account.  He and Catherine both recounted the winds and cliffs they'd conquered while skiing earlier in the day.  They looked older than me, and were the large, squishy variety of people.  It's always a little suspicious when the large, squishy folks boast about their athletic prowess.  Then again, I've been out-run by chunky gals, and seen some grace in motion on the mountain from the plus-size set.  You never know.

In walks Gus.  Glorious Gus.  He didn't look old enough to drink... legally.  He was carded and proved that he'd been 21 for three months, then he took a seat in the empty chair between Catherine and me.  He'd been coming to Utah every year for Thanksgiving since he was a kid and was meeting some buddies.

NOTE:  Gus' real name is something so COOL, but I can't tell you.  When we were talking about names he said his parents almost named him Gus.  I shared with him that Chris and I also almost named our 4-year-old son, Gus -- after Augustus McCrae in Lonesome Dove.

With a smile on his face and a thick, boyish lisp, Gus gave Theodore, Catherine, Bartender Cindy, and me a gift that night.

+++++

Gus joined the Army when he was 18 and is halfway through a six-year commitment.  He's currently stationed at Fort Hood and had just returned from Afghanistan when the massacre occurred.  He was in the building across from the tragedy when it happened.  Gus spoke freely about some experiences and understandably sterilized others.  He received a Purple Heart after being shot in the chest when he stood up in a foxhole.  He pulled the collar of his t-shirt down so we could see a portion of his scar.  He grinned and told us he and his buddy had been filming each other prior to the shooting.  As he went down, he childishly and honestly admitted that he looked at his friend and said, "Please tell me you got that on film..."

Theodore and Catherine were quiet.  Cindy listened as she cleaned glasses behind the bar.  I selfishly thought about my own sons as I absorbed Gus' words and mannerisms.

The conversation jumped from Gus' Army experiences to his high school days, and vacations with cousins.  We all let him drive.

Gus has seen young men die and recently lost his Lieutenant.  His mother encouraged him to seek psychological help to process all he'd endured at his young age.  I told him the media has highlighted the need for more mental health professionals in the military.  He told me, "Those guys sit behind a desk and push paper.  They don't know what it's like."  His half-smile and cheerful tone, punctuated his words with sharp irony.

He shared a particularly disturbing story about a puppy he'd adopted in Afghanistan.  He said the stray dogs were difficult for him because he loves dogs.  If a dog continued to trip a flare wire, intended to alert when an enemy was approaching, orders were given to kill the dog.  Gus used his night vision device to identify the dogs and threw rocks to scare them away.  He couldn't bear the thought of shooting the animals.

He adopted a puppy and named him Reggie after a dog he'd had as a child.  He said the puppy was still basically a stray because pets weren't allowed at camp, but everyone knew the dog was "his".  He said he has a picture he loves where he's cradling Reggie with one arm, the puppy's nose peeking out of his jacket, and his gun in the other arm.

One night one of Gus' fellow soldiers returned to his sleeping spot to find Reggie had peed on his blankets and bed.  Reggie wasn't even three months old.  Enraged, the soldier killed the young dog.

Gus' demeanor never deviated from light.  He didn't come across as complaining or trying to showboat with heavy stories.  He was a kid, talking with people at a bar, answering an occasional question, checking his cell phone, all with a boyish smile, Ron Howard eyes [sweet but old] and that awesome, thick lisp.

+++++

Theodore and Catherine needed to get their kids to a sushi bar, and Gus' buddies had called with word on where they planned to meet.  Theodore picked up Gus' tab and shook his hand.  Gus chatted with me for a few more minutes before excitedly leaving to join his friends.  I shook his hand and said, "I know it sounds corny, but thank you."  He smiled and said, "You're welcome."

Cindy and I visited for a while, discussing life, parenting and war... I imagine topics a bartender is well-versed in.

My sons entered the bar, signaling they were out of tokens and ready for dinner.  I proudly introduced them to Cindy, then she politely asked them to step outside of the bar...  because they were... too young.

The Women

Polygamy (Plural Marriage)

The family is ordained of God. Marriage between man and woman is essential to His eternal plan. At certain times and for His specific purposes, God, through His prophets, has directed the practice of plural marriage (sometimes called polygamy), which means one man having more than one living wife at the same time. In obedience to direction from God, Latter-day Saints followed this practice for about 50 years during the 1800s but officially ceased the practice of such marriages after the Manifesto was issued by President Woodruff in 1890. Since that time, plural marriage has not been approved by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and any member adopting this practice is subject to losing his or her membership in the Church.

-Taken from LDS.ORG

It was a hot day in late June, the Hogle Zoo in Salt Lake City wasn't crowded, and the animals were surprisingly active.  I packed lunches for my sons and myself.  We enjoyed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on a picnic table while watching zebras play.  I chose a table away from the others, that was in the shade and clean.  As we were eating, a man and woman wheeled their disabled adult son around us to a table that was more secluded than ours.  They prepared their son for a tube feeding, and fed him.  I watched my sons, interested in their reaction.  It didn't phase them.  They smiled at the three-person family, happily ate their sandwiches and enjoyed the rearing zebras.

As we walked around the zoo, I noticed some young men wearing jeans, long-sleeve, button-front shirts and wide brimmed hats.  The Hogle Zoo is near a historical park where employees wear "pioneer" clothes.  At first I thought the young men were from the park, but then I noticed their contemporary shoes.  Then I saw them join several young girls, a few women and one man.  They were an FLDS polygamist family. On occasion I see sister-wives shopping for groceries and I'm aware of a few polygamist homes where I've seen women and children milling around, but I've never seen an entire FLDS family together in public.  I was fascinated.  I wanted to follow them, watch them, eavesdrop, take pictures, and ask questions. 

Coincidentally, we happened to be on the same general path around the zoo so I was able to observe this family for nearly an hour.  I was not following them, I was following my kids.  It was serendipitous.

What I noticed...

The Girls:  They ranged in age from preschool age to late teens.  They all wore the classic FLDS dresses and had long, beautifully braided hair.  They were pretty little girls, all fair-haired or red-haired, and freckled.  They looked healthy and happy, spoke freely to one another, their brothers, mothers and father, and moved about the exhibits with the normal pace and excitement of any child.  Some of the older girls had digital and video cameras.  They never looked at or seemed to notice another human being.  It was as if people were invisible, or insignificant, like a tree or a bush.  Aware of it's location, but able to maneuver around the object without looking directly at it.

The Boys:  They too ranged in age from preschool age to late teens.  There were fewer boys than girls, and a couple of the older ones had rugged good looks, and working hands.  Their coloring was like the girls, and again, they were all attractive, looked physically healthy, talked and laughed with each other and their family members, and displayed unabashed excitement and pleasure while viewing the animals.  Their long sleeve shirts were buttoned at the collar and their hats looked like something Tom Sawyer would wear.  The only visible skin, like the girls, was their hands and their faces.  They also did not look at another person outside of their family.  Not once.

The Father:  He was dressed like the boys except his hat looked like a pith helmet.  He was a red-haired man, not nearly as handsome as his sons, and built like... Rush Limbaugh.  His face resembled Ron Howard's, almost soft and appealing, with an expression that I read as both melancholy and content.  He may have been 45-55 years old.  He stayed close to his wives and occasionally he bent down to listen to something a young child wanted to say to him, giving the child a smile and a pat.  He looked at the animals, but he was watching people.  I believe he was constantly taking in the surroundings as the protector of his family.

The Women:  I saw four wives.  They were dressed like the girls, hair elaborately braided with high bangs, but these weren't pretty women.  They looked middle-aged, tired and frumpy, although I can't honestly say that they looked unhappy.  Their faces likely betrayed their age.  They were probably younger than they looked.  The kids all appeared so physically healthy with rosy cheeks, nice teeth and bright eyes.  The women, in contrast, all had 20-40 pounds to lose and looked like the kind of women who are busy taking care of everyone but themselves.  Two of the women had digital cameras and were snapping pictures of the animals and the kids.  Just like the children, none of the women looked at anyone outside of their family.

My Sons:  They seemed oblivious to this family.  Other zoo visitors were clearly curious, and I was both surprised and pleased to see how discreetly people tried to satisfy their curiosity.  Glancing at one of the family members quickly, resisting the urge to stare.  My boys didn't even steal a glance.  At one point Toddler Child was in the midst of several little FLDS girls, darting from exhibit to exhibit.  He moved their skirts out of the way if he couldn't see an animal.  I nearly hurt myself trying to take a picture of Toddler Child looking at a crocodile with the girls.  To preserve the kids' identities, I'll only share this one.

I've watched various documentaries about the FLDS sect.  Women [who haven't escaped] claim to be happy and content.  How can they not be when they don't know anything different?  I find it interesting that even with the boundaries established for them, the women are still women.  Because they don't cut their hair, they get as creative as possible with intricate braids, twists and bangs.  The dresses have subtle differences in pleats, buttons, collars, and stitching.  When given a box in which to operate, they still explore every nook and cranny.  Where these women can exercise their girl-power, they do.

I don't know why this family was in Salt Lake City at the Hogle Zoo on an afternoon in late June.  They may have been in town for reasons associated with the Warren Jeffs trial.  I'm not aware of FLDS members "vacationing".  The children I saw that day appeared healthy and happy.  Almost typical in their behavior.  Their future is predictable unless they exit the faith.  We know the end of the story.  With the recent attention on the Lost Boys and the practice of marrying underage girls [something the FLDS sect has renounced], perhaps their future will be... I don't know... better?  not so bad?  Their world is so radically different from ours that it's difficult to imagine.

The father of this family seemed content and proud of his beautiful children and devoted wives.  I'm convinced he believes he's traveling a righteous path.

To think about this entire family, their beliefs, the obviously hard-working boys, girls, women and even father, their clothing on a hot summer day, wondering if the boys would ever have a chance to marry, knowing none of them will marry for love... in total left me feeling still curious, and uneasy.  But it was the faces of the women, those women, that disturbed me the most. 

Secret Lovers

I was in our home office one evening last summer after watching a fireworks display with Chris and the boys from our backyard.  Our house sits on a corner lot across the street from a park where celebratory fireworks are usually launched.  The holiday doesn't matter for this story.  It could have been July 4th, Pioneer Day, or our "Small Town Days" annual celebration.

It was about 9:30 PM, the office was dark and I had entered quietly so I wouldn't wake Toddler Child who was asleep in his room above the office.  I wanted to check email before getting ready for bed myself.  The office has two interior french doors and one french door that opens to the exterior with a full length window next to it.  There's a small porch off the office and the door and window provide a clear view of the street in front of our home.  On this evening, the street was full of cars.  People had parked in any available space in the neighborhood and walked to the park to watch the fireworks.

I hadn't turned on any lights when I noticed a small white car in front of our house with two girls sitting on the hood, leaning back on the front windshield.  They didn't see me.  For some reason [Nosy Nosington - here] I chose to move closer to the window, hiding myself, but watching.

The two girls both had long hair, trim figures and were an average sort of pretty.  My kids aren't teenagers so I'm not very good at estimating ages, but I would guess the girls were 15 or 16.  They were chatting and laughing, sitting on the hood of the car.

The fireworks ended, people clapped and whistled, and through our open windows I could hear the sounds associated with gathering blankets, snacks, and kids.  The crowd was collecting itself, and would be making its way to parked vehicles.  The two girls hopped off the car and walked to the sidewalk.  They were standing near the car, shoulder-to-shoulder, but not touching the car or each other and I could see them clearly.  My eyes had adjusted to the darkness.

They seemed to be discussing something.  They turned and faced each other, quickly looked around, I now assume, to see if they were still alone.  Then... they kissed.  They held hands at hip height, and stole a long, loving kiss.

I just watched.

Within seconds they pulled away from one another, separated and walked around the little white car so they were standing on the street instead of the sidewalk.  People trickled, then streamed from the park searching for their cars.  Three kids - two boys and one girl - approached the white car while smiling and engaging in horseplay.  They greeted the two girls who had a moment prior secretly kissed.  One of the boys grabbed the hand of one of the kissing girls.  They appeared to be boyfriend and girlfriend.  The couple hugged, playfully kissed and hung on each other while the group of friends likely discussed where they would go next.

I just watched.  And thought.

After several minutes the street was nearly empty of cars.  The kids finally climbed into the little white car in front of our house.  One of the kissing girls was in the backseat with her boyfriend, his arm over her shoulder, nuzzling her neck.  The other kissing girl was in the front passenger seat, smiling and fiddling with the radio.  The second boy was driving and the third girl was in the backseat trying to ignore the light petting occurring between the young couple - the boyfriend and the kissing girl.

As they drove away that night I wondered what the truth was.  Who loved who?  Who was afraid of who?  And I felt sad.

The Damn Scam

First Offense:  Phoenix, Arizona - August 2008

Mamaw was watching television, most likely with the newspaper folded in such a way in front of her on the coffee table that she could glance at it and be reminded of the date.  She likes to know what day it is.  The phone rang.  Upon answering, she heard the voice of a young man claiming to be her grandson. 

"Hi!  It's your grandson!"  She was naturally pleased, because it's rare that her adult grandsons call her.

"Is this Patrick?" she asked.  The young man said he was.  He told her he was in some trouble.  Please don't tell any other family members.  He was in jail and needed a few thousand dollars to post bail.

The story didn't jive for Mamaw.  Not because she didn't think it was Patrick, but because she didn't think he should be calling her for money.  Mamaw told Dad later in the day about the call and said she didn't think it was a good idea to send money.  Dad listened to Mamaw's story and quickly concluded she hadn't been called by one of her grandsons.  He explained what had likely happened to her. 

Mamaw is 91 years old.  I've written about her here and here.

Second Offense:  Bellevue, Washington - March 2009

Chris' grandmother received a call from a young man claiming to be her "favorite grandson".   She, like Mamaw, was delighted to hear from one of her adult grandsons.  She assumed it was Chris.  [He's obviously her favorite.]  The young man said he was in some trouble.  He also requested other family members not be alerted because he was embarrassed and would explain later.  He needed $3700 wired immediately - he was in jail in Vancouver.

Chris' grandmother told his grandfather about the phone call and together they made a trip to the bank.  They withdrew money and prepared to wire funds to their favorite grandson.

Chris' grandfather became suspicious while talking with the young man as they were getting specific wiring instructions.  He began asking the favorite grandson questions to confirm his identity.  The perp cracked when Grandpa Ross asked, "What's your dog's name?"  He hung-up.

Grandma and Grandpa Ross are 84 and 85 years old.

Lessons Learned

1. Grandchildren of Mamaw - If you're in trouble, Mamaw might send you a file in a cake to spring you from the clink.  Don't hold your breath for cash.  Go to Plan B.
2. Grandchildren of Grandma and Grandpa Ross - Ensure you have Grandma and Grandpa's contact information on your person at all times.  Specific wiring instructions for your financial institution would be helpful also.
3. Favorites - My brother Mallory Joe is NOT Mamaw's favorite grandson.  Chris IS the favorite grandson of Grandma and Grandpa Ross.
4. Mary [our dog] - She gets extra treats this month for saving Grandma and Grandpa money.  She really is like Lassie...

Seriously, warn the older people in your life about this scam.

He threw me a bone today.

I've mentioned before that Chris, my husband, is a marketing guy and has a blog... that I skim.  He continues to supportively proofread my posts or listen to my ideas, and I continue to leave raunchy comments on his blog that he moderates and does not post.  It works for us.

Chris had planned to post something that he found on Where's My Jetpack? and decided maybe it wasn't the right tone for his demographic.  I disagreed but asked if I could use it.

[Click on image to enlarge.]

For the record, my current feelings about the popular forms of Social Media are:

Blogging - I'm enjoying it, but struggle with not letting it become too much of a distraction from other priorities.  I haven't been able to reconcile the narcissistic feelings that accompany blogging.  I just try to avoid the "I love me" posts.

Facebook - I'm not doing it right.  I lurk a bit, but I don't post my status.  I feel greasy after I've been on Facebook and find myself washing my hands and wanting a shower.  I'm trying to participate more in the Facebook space.  Kyran of Notes to Self nails it here.

Twitter - No can do.  I'm distracted enough by this stuff.  I've occasionally looked at someone's Twitter string.  Gives me vertigo.  I can't play video games either.  Not judging those who Twitter - I'm just not that talented.

Here's one more Where's My Jetpack? goof...

[Click on image to enlarge.]

Bloggy Friends, Polygamy and Prisons

People who blog know you can develop sincere relationships with other bloggers -- bloggers you've never met in the flesh.  Those who read blogs but don't blog themselves can have a difficult time seeing this as possible and not weird.  I understand.

Bloggy Friends
A couple of my friends who have known me for years have expressed a bit of jealousy over my bloggy relationships.  One friend called and said, "Do you even KNOW this person?  Have you talked to her?  She totally acts like she knows you.  Don't you think that's weird?  You know I was THERE all those times you threw-up.  I held your hair.  I've experienced your car-sickness.  She doesn't know these things..."

Another friend called and said, "Who's Betty [fictitious bloggy friend name]?  She acts like she knows you.  How do you meet these people?  I'm about ready to tell Betty [fictitious bloggy friend name] to BACK. OFF!"

All I'm going to say is, a Brownie Group I proudly joined in Winchester, Indiana, taught me to sing, "Make new friends, but keep the old.  One is silver and the other gold."

Polygamy
This has always fascinated me.  When I was in college I met a girl who's parents were in a polygamous relationship.  It was one man and three wives and they were all about the same age.  Not a 56-year old pedophile with a 15-year old child.  I only knew this girl because I advertised on our dorm bulletin board that I was looking for students who wanted to go to Phoenix for the weekend.  We were attending Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff, Arizona, and the gas money I collected from the riders paid for my trip home.

I always wanted this girl to be in the car.  I saved the front seat for her so I could ask questions.  She was very nice and answered them all.  I'm a detail gal, so I just went for it.  Still fascinates me.

Prisons
I would love to tour a prison... wearing an invisible cloak.  That's the problem.  I think I'd be scared if all the perps were staring at me, or cussing at me, or naked.  What do they talk about?

I read Tom Wolfe's, A Man in Full several years ago and a significant portion of the plot takes place in a prison.  This simultaneously satisfied and stimulated my curiosity.  Some of the prison scenes are very graphic.  I know Tom Wolfe does his research, so it might be the closest thing to a tour that I'll ever experience.

Maybe I could get one of those realistic fatsuits.  A realistic, MAN fatsuit.  I bet that would be like an invisible cloak in a prison...

Jackpot
When we first moved to Utah six years ago, Oldest Boy was five and Middle Boy was three.  The first year living here, I used to take the boys for drives to kill time and coax a nap.

I was intrigued to learn we live near a prison.  Not so near that I'm worried or can see it from my neighborhood, but within 15 miles. 

Not far from the prison is a large, red-brick, polygamy house on several acres.  There's a pretty, stone schoolhouse, horses, a large garden, and what appear to be happy, normally clothed women and children milling around [what I've seen with my binoculars].  If I was going to marry a polygamist, I think this might be the one.

On my afternoon drives, I usually made a pass or two by the prison and the polygamy house.  I know I've gotten as close to each structure and surrounding property as possible.  From every angle.  If I saw prisoners or one of the Mrs. Nelson's [fictitious last name], my day was made.

Chris would ask me about my day when he arrived home from work, "So Geraldo, did you make any progress on your prison and polygamy investigations?"  Smart-ass.

When he asked about his day, Oldest Boy often said, "We drove to the place where the people who do bad things live.  Then we went where all those women and children live... again."

So what have we learned?  That the spirit of Gladys Kravitz lives on... a little bit in all of us.

Vote.

[EDIT:  I didn't realize I was the only person in the United States who hadn't seen this.  I also didn't realize one out of every five bloggers has posted about it.  Sorry for another "department of redundancy department" post.  When my friend emailed it to me, it sat unwatched in my inbox for several days.  What I get for not promptly reading, replying to, and acting on email.]

A friend of mine sent this to me a couple of weeks ago.  It's funny.  If you choose to watch it, make sure  kids, or adults who are sensitive to hearing a bad word or two, aren't within range.  It's a little under five minutes long. (Sorry.  I know.  Video posts lose me if they're longer than two minutes - sometimes 30 seconds, depending on the day.)

It entertained me, and I hope it's accomplishing it's mission and motivating some young people to do their homework and vote.

Thank you A-luscious.  (That's my friend.  The one who sent this to me.  Not her real name.)

Tru Dat

I'm not hip, although every once in a while a word from the Urban Dictionary comes out of my mouth and I'm proud that I recalled it from somewhere, and used the word correctly.

Neil at Citizen of the Month posted about slang today after needing to google a few words contained in some comments he received on a prior post.  The seven of you who read my blog (see note) most likely have already read Neil's post, so this is a "department of redundancy department" post on my part.

NOTE:  I used to say I had three readers, but I feel confident upping that number to seven.  Although, my family is no longer a part of that total.  My Dad doesn't "believe in blogs".  He says he doesn't like it when people express private emotions publicly, and politely told me he wouldn't be reading my blog, but it was "nice" that I had one.  Mother's busy.  She plays bridge, shops, and takes stuff back.  She checks a post once every couple of months.  My brother Mallory Joe loses addresses and phone numbers.  I think he's still looking for the link I've sent him a few dozen times.  I'm pretty sure I annoy the rest of my family.  It's okay.  Really.

Neil references an article in his mother's AARP magazine that lists 50 words kids are using these days.  He challenges his readers' knowledge of these words.  It's entertaining, and I was only familiar with a handful.  I'm 42.

Made me think of a few overused words and phrases that I've used in an effort to be hip, and I see on many other blogs.

• hawt - let's just all go back to typing "hot".
• whatevah - again, "whatever" conveys it just fine.
• I'm just sayin' - TMZ's been using this for years, not that I go to that site...
• ahem -This is a nice word.  We're all using it too frequently.
• dude - on occasion this works, but there's a new breed of young women who pepper their posts with "Dude!".
• Dooce-ease - Some may disagree with me, but I think Dooce is a good writer and I believe she's tapped into the psyche of many which is why she's so popular.  She has an identifiable writing style that I see imitated frequently when I blog surf.  Dooce's style sometimes gets old on her site, so to see so many others use phrases like, "..and then I was all...", " and he was all...", or "Dude...".  She's a female "dude" user that can get away with it.  Usually.  The rest of us need to think twice before throwing in a "dude" in an effort to be hip.
• Gawd  - God works.  We don't need to spell it incorrectly in an effort to avoid saying His name in vain.  He'll still love us.
• heh-heh or huh-huh or Beavis & Butthead laugh - Yawn.  I thought it was funny the first time I used it in a post too.  I'm so clever... duh.

I think I'll quit before I alienate all seven of you.  Remember.  I stand before you, guilty of using all overused hip-terms and imitating other bloggers.

Check out Neil's post.  He links to the AARP article, but you can also click here to read it.

Peace out.¹

¹From the Urban Dictionary:  1. A slang term telling someone good-bye, used with a hand gesture in which you pound your chest with your fist twice, then give the peace sign.

I'm trying to get his priorities straight.

Me:  I need to do a new post today.  What should I write about?

Chris:  I don't know.  I have my own problems.

I know most people who blog are stealing moments from a hectic day to sit down and write. I often feel I've written something in the most fragmented way.  I still seek that extra bit of encouragement and a second set of eyes to confirm that I didn't miss a glaring error.  I usually call Chris. 

He's busy, but takes time out of his day to pause and read something I'm about to post to my blog.  I call him at work asking, "Can we please line edit this together?"  He says sarcastically, "Oh, I love this part." 

I read aloud very slowly as he's following along on his PC at work.  Is that a clumsy sentence?  Is it clear what I'm trying to say?  Is that too self-indulgent?  Okay, we made a few changes, lets start from the top.  He sighs, and I can hear him typing in the background.  "I don't think you're focusing," I say.  He replies, "I am too.  I think it's great.  Just don't use the word 'thingy'.  You've been using that too much."  Awww.  He is paying attention.

Not only because he patiently supports me in so many areas, but because he's good at what he does (which I really don't understand completely to be honest - I call it bringin' home the bacon), I'd like to link to some nice things for him (red = lovey).  Click here to see his blog post announcing the launch of something about which he is excited.  Click here to see his partner's post about the same thing with many flattering comments about my husband.  And finally click here to read the press release that cost him zero dollars but still made it to Yahoo.

Now I'm going to call him to see if he has a minute to help me line edit this...

I don't care who you are...

When I was in high school, I was the Alex P. Keaton of the Family Ties family in our home.  I couldn't wait to vote in my first presidential election - I voted for Reagan.  Alex would have been so proud.  My parents groaned when I called them from college and told them I voted straight Republican.  All I'll share about my politics now, is that I am neither a registered Republican, nor a Democrat.  I'm an Independent, and please don't riff on politics. I can't hang right now.  I need to do more homework.

As I got a little older and fiddled around on the dark side in college, my mind opened in new ways.  However, I've always been able to slip back into my Alex P. Keaton mode and say things to my parents and brother to get a reaction (my brother was the boy version of Mallory Keaton).  My family knows I'm doing it to be a poke in the eye - it's just ornery fun.  I'm not bigoted towards any group of people, except maybe "bad" people.  (I suppose I struggle with a few judgments here and there.)

A friend recently emailed me a knock-knock joke that was pushing the bounds of good taste.  In the current election, there are a few "-ism's" that are being targeted via cheap jokes.  Ageism, racism, sexism, homophobia, multiculturalism...  The knock-knock joke pinged an "ism".  I did not agree with the joke, but like Larry the Cable Guy says, "I don't care who you are, that's funny right there."

I didn't forward this joke to anyone else, but I did to Mom and Dad, knowing as they opened and read it, they'd wonder where they'd gone wrong.

Mom's exact email response: 

"I'm trying to figure out how to get this out of my computer, so it won't surface after I die......"

To coin one more Larry the Cable Guy phrase, "Lord, I apologize for that right there, and please be with the starvin' pygmies down there in New Guinea, A-men."

Laugh. Think. Laugh. Think. Repeat as necessary.

So glad it's Friday.  I'm tired.  Helped Julie at Snoasis again on Wednesday night.  Supermodel's been killin' me with early morning workouts - Betty Boop even hooked up with us one day.  Hosted Bunko resulting in the stupid b#ner (rhymes with loner) post.  So here's a little funkay Friday refreshment.  It's only one minute long, so check out Spock's Casa - let's all just loosen up...

Now, if you want to watch something a little less bubble-gum, check out this 16 minute talk posted on Chris' blog about what we all do with our "cognitive surplus" i.e. spare time, and how it's evolved.  Chris is obviously a marketing guy, but the video clip is interesting commentary for anyone. 

Don't worry, I won't quiz you on the surplus link, but I expect everyone to quote from Star Trek Cribs.  "No salsa on the leath-ah!"

"Does 7800 go all the way through?!"

Oldest Boy and Middle Boy traveled to Arizona to see my parents last week.  It was their first solo flight and their first time alone for a few nights with grandparents.  Everything went great and they're home safely.

While they were away, Chris, Toddler Child and I tried to "have fun".  Toddler Child's the weakest link in this house, so there weren't a lot of fireworks - literally and figuratively.

One afternoon Chris and I decided it would be "fun" for Toddler Child and I to meet him for an early dinner and hit the Apple store in Salt Lake City.  It was the day before the 4th of July so traffic was terrible.  What should have been a 25-minute drive to get Chris, turned into an hour.  There were accidents, construction detours, crazy people driving - just awful.  At one point I was re-routed off the freeway and trying to figure out how to back-track to Chris' office.  I called him to let him know why we were so late...

Me:  Hi Honey.  Traffic's a zoo.  There's stupid accidents.  It's hot.  Everybody's irritated.  Anyway, we're running late.

Chris:  Where are you?

Me:  I couldn't exit on to 215 so I'm on Redwood Road for some reason.  I'm heading north.  Hold on, I need to get over...

Chris:  Hmm.  Hey, I was hoping to get a haircut...

Me:  Hold on, I can't think...  There might be time - just try, and if we get there I'll call...

Chris:  How long will you be?

Me:  I don't know.  Wait.  I've gotta get over...  Does 7800 go all the way through???

Chris:  I don't know.

Me:  C'MON DIPSH#T!!!  [said to a driver who wasn't letting me in]

Chris:  Excuse me? [laughing]  I honestly don't know whether 7800 goes through or not.

Horrendous traffic, cell phones, and road rage make for interesting conversations.

"Sock it to me!"

Farewell Dick Martin.  He was 86 years old when he died last night.  I vividly remember Mom and Dad watching "Laugh-In".  I didn't get the jokes, but they laughed and exchanged glances with smiles.  I liked the mini-skirts, platform shoes, go-go boots and "crazy" dancing.  Looked like everyone was having so much fun.  Goldie Hawn, Lily Tomlin, Ruth Buzzi, Arte Johnson, doors opening and closing, corny jokes that entertained.  I feel sad he's passed.  I didn't cry though - like when John Ritter and Steve Irwin left. 

Rowan:  Say "goodnight" Dick. 

Martin:  "Goodnight Dick."