Dear Citizens,
A couple weeks ago my sister and I set off for the small town where our grandmother, 91, now resides in a rest home. From Granny's point of view, she came to live in the rest home under the guise of "28 day rehab" when she was discharged from the hospital after the last of many trip and falls and heart episodes. She was coaxed into going to rehab by the nice-looking young doctor at the clinic. Granny has always been a sucker for handsomeness or men in general. Once in preparation for minor surgery a few years ago and with a dreamy look in her eyes she whispered to me "Doesn't Dr. Cotton look just like Dan Rather?" She has many crushes, including George Strait, Pat Sajak, and John at the Dairy Queen. There's also John's friend, Milton. Granny's conflicted over Milton because "the man's ugly as sin" yet "has the best personality."
You know you've arrived in town, pop. 3000, once you pass the summer sausage-smoked cheese-brittles-fudge shop on the left and the veterinary clinic with the sign "Rattlesnake Vaccine Now Available" on the right. Before you arrive at the town square, you pass the Chicken/Taco Express (75 cents for a large iced tea, and yes, you can order it unsweetened) and The Donut Shop situated in an old gas station with the sign "Long Johns on Special."
You know you've arrived in town when your father (he lives up the hill from The Donut Shop) hits you up for a $30 loan until he can recall the P.I.N. for his new debit card, and presumably to get his fix of iced tea and long johns for the weekend. You also know you've arrived when your uncle (he also lives up the hill and next door to your father) calls your cell phone repeatedly. Anticipating visitors is big in a small town.
At the town square, there's a grocery store, cafe, florist, gift shop, hardware store, gun shop, and dueling pharmacies - on opposite sides of the square. I imagine a real drug war going on there. I've explored a couple of shops and can report that the grocery store smells like bologna and 50% of the produce section is frozen iceberg lettuce the size of bowling balls. The linoleum floor is uneven and crackles. I like that. As for the flower shop it's overflowing with black and red ribbon and silk mums to support the high school. Go Bulldogs. Fortunately, red is my grandmother's favorite color.
After a left turn at the square and out on the highway, there's a local hamburger joint ("sources" report the iced tea costs $1 - a rip off) and an ALCO general merchandise store. I've made many trips to Granny's new home in the past 6 months and have found an abundance of useful things at ALCO: her favorite jelly beans (I'm sure Granny had a crush on Ronald Reagan), Lubriderm, sleeping cap, socks, pillows, Christmas decorations, sweatsuits (the rest home's official uniform) and for me, a current women's magazine. Beware. The magazines at the store on the square are dusty with camouflaged men on the cover.
Now to the rest home. There's good and bad and much resting.
The good:
1. Granny
2. The patio and outdoor area.
3. The large window in her room with a nice view.
4. The Texas-sized lobby and decor.
The bad:
1. The incessant buzzing and beeping noises.
2. An odor in a couple of spots along the corridor.
3. The temperature - it's insanely warm. Tropical without the paradise.
4. The resident who insists on wheeling himself to the lobby in his shower chair.
You must know this is not a retirement center or senior citizen center. It's not that vibrant. No dominoes clicking on the tables. The residents are mostly confined to wheelchairs and need full-time care. In advanced age, they have difficulty communicating with each other. Granny is one of the more spry and social residents but reports she can't see to play bingo. She does engage in wheelchair exercise class and never misses a meal in the dining hall. She's gained a much needed 11 pounds since she arrived.
There's an issue with her vision. We're not sure what she can and cannot see. Example:
Granny: CitizenB, your face is just a blur to me.
CitizenB: Okay, let me try something. Look at me. What am I doing now?
Granny: You're sticking out your tongue at me!
CitizenB: Bingo!
While we're there, I'm compelled to talk to every resident I encounter, including the man in the shower chair. For the record, he's "Becky's Daddy" and loves chicken. And there's the lady with powdered eyeglasses, bless her heart. I also attempt conversation with Granny's roommate Dorothy - not to be confused with Granny's friend from the dining hall Dorothy a/k/a Floozy Dot. Of course, Granny would make friends with the woman in love with a married man and not the woman she argues with over closet space. I don't blame her. There's more mystery with Floozy Dot. Roommate Dorothy has a high pitched, squeaky voice and it's almost as bad as the buzzing and beeping noises. As for the married man, yes, he and his wife live at the center, and as far as Granny knows Floozy Dot's love for him is a secret. She says: "We don't talk about it." I'm sure.
Granny has two sons. As mentioned, both live in town and are single. No sane woman would have them. Granny's not entirely happy because one, my uncle, visits too much, and two, my dad, visits too little. She doesn't want to complain about too many visits, but she lets on that #1 son can get on her nerves. As for #2 son, my dad, she reports that she doesn't know what's wrong with him and if "I had not been there during his birth I wouldn't believe he's mine." Ouch.
#1 son is very social and enjoys chatting up the nursing home aides and women at the Dollar Store. #2 son is anti-social and enjoys dreaming up new craft projects involving feathers, beads, leather, wood and old car parts. #1 son has a beloved cat. #2 son has three dogs - make that two dogs and a wolf-dog. Yes, my father lives with wolves. Before becoming a wolf-owner, he preferred to date women he met at Pow-Wows. One conversation went like this:
Daddy: I'm seeing an ol' girl. (Yes, this is how he communicates.)
CitizenB: What's her name?
Daddy: Feather.
CitizenB: Heather?
Daddy: No, Feather.
CitizenB: What's her real name?
Daddy, chuckling: Brenda (you see, my mom/his first wife's name is Brenda and she has been justly and majorly upset with him for 45 years and will be for all eternity.)
CitizenB: Interesting. I guess in comparison, this would make Mom's native name "Tomahawk."
Getting back to Granny...during our last visit and out of the blue, Granny announced that three nights before she had witnessed a possum in her room. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she pointed to where she saw the little critter before he hid behind the dresser.
CitizenB: Granny, are you sure you saw a possum?
Granny: Yep.
CitizenB: Could it have been a mouse or worse, a rat?
Granny: No, it was a possum.
CitizenB: What did you do?
Granny: Well, I lifted my feet off the floor.
CitizenB: Did you tell someone?
Granny: No. They wouldn't believe me.
A few minutes later, a nurse's aide came into the room and my sister reported the possum sighting. The aide stood silently for a minute and then announced, "Well, let's hope it stays behind the dresser." As a trained investigator and while in search for the vending machine late in the afternoon, I noticed a large door off the dining hall slightly ajar. It led to a patio for employees only providing them a place to cool off and prevent dying of heat stroke. In this rural setting, I suppose it's not impossible for a hungry or confused possum to find his way inside. Also for the record, there's one thing we cannot dispute, blind or not, my country grandmother knows her vermin.
After a full day, my sister and I head back to a different civilization. We try to comprehend everything we heard and witnessed, including the resident who carried on a loud conversation with herself about an event occurring most likely around 1928. We were unaware women cursed so much in 1928.
As we leave town, there's a large cat sitting near the square waving us goodbye. He's a rather strange cat with a solid white body and a black head and neck. Somehow he was assigned the wrong cat's body. Otherwise, he appears to be wearing a ski mask so he could be a bank robber cat. It's too bad Granny wasn't there to make a positive identification. For all we know he could have been a possum.
CitizenB
Monday, March 30, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Anger Management
Dear Citizens,
For once, we're united - in anger. Shock, dismay, disbelief, outrage, irritation to the nth degree - just to name a few reactions to the financial crisis. Let's face it - our financial institutions have failed us, excuse me - robbed us. Bailouts, bonuses, derivatives, double-dipping trading partners, falling stocks, foreclosures, securities fraud, unemployment, etc. The list goes on and on. At a minimum, the big cheeses have committed gross negligence. So much for Sarbanes-Oxley and other lessons not learned from Enron.
No man, woman or child is escaping this meltdown. Therefore, anger - large scale anger (the scary kind) - is the only logical conclusion.
The outrage has lead to armed guards stationed in upscale Connecticut neighborhoods where AIG executives live and play golf. It has led to Congress going all atwitter and absolutely nuts - more nuts than usual. If they only had real balls and could ever see the big picture. It has led to John Stewart blasting Jim Cramer and CNBC for playing along with the hedge fund game. Even our comic relief has been invaded by anger.
What to do? I don't believe there are enough anger management books in current publication to go around. Don't you know that Dr. Phil and other Dr. Phil wannabes are going to take full advantage of our misery and publish a few new books in the next 30 days? Just the thought of Dr. Phil pisses me off so I don't see his so-called self-help shtick helping.
Here are a few anger management suggestions:
1. Admit we are angry. Hint, hint President Obama.
2. Take the top 100 financial evil-doers , foreclose on all of their mortgages/sell their houses in The Hamptons and force them to live in public housing for 18 years - in Detroit.
3. Scratch the planned $300M George W. Bush Presidential Center and "Freedom" Institute. Take the tax-deductible donations and build an Early Education Center on 25 acres of SMU land. Enlist Cheney as janitor and George W. as groundskeeper. Cheney deserves to scrub toilets, and we all know how well George W. clears brush. They could learn something from the four-year-olds about how to play well with others and to obey rules.
As for small things you can do to alleviate anger and regain control, try these:
1. Throw darts at photos of geeky insurance executives.
2. Burn tax returns and records (older than 7 years) - yes, I am a rebel.
3. Engage the entire family in meditation including teaching your cat the lotus position.
4. Pretend to be Survivor Man.
5. If all else fails, slam kitchen cabinet doors - it has always worked for my Mother.
Seriously, let's focus on turning a negative into a positive. For starters, we can convert our anger into wind energy or another clean fuel technology. I don't know about you, but when I'm mad, there's a lot of whirling and twirling. This leads me to believe there's a way to channel our adrenaline and eliminate the need for Middle East oil. One crisis fixes another! It's the American Way.
CitizenB
For once, we're united - in anger. Shock, dismay, disbelief, outrage, irritation to the nth degree - just to name a few reactions to the financial crisis. Let's face it - our financial institutions have failed us, excuse me - robbed us. Bailouts, bonuses, derivatives, double-dipping trading partners, falling stocks, foreclosures, securities fraud, unemployment, etc. The list goes on and on. At a minimum, the big cheeses have committed gross negligence. So much for Sarbanes-Oxley and other lessons not learned from Enron.
No man, woman or child is escaping this meltdown. Therefore, anger - large scale anger (the scary kind) - is the only logical conclusion.
The outrage has lead to armed guards stationed in upscale Connecticut neighborhoods where AIG executives live and play golf. It has led to Congress going all atwitter and absolutely nuts - more nuts than usual. If they only had real balls and could ever see the big picture. It has led to John Stewart blasting Jim Cramer and CNBC for playing along with the hedge fund game. Even our comic relief has been invaded by anger.
What to do? I don't believe there are enough anger management books in current publication to go around. Don't you know that Dr. Phil and other Dr. Phil wannabes are going to take full advantage of our misery and publish a few new books in the next 30 days? Just the thought of Dr. Phil pisses me off so I don't see his so-called self-help shtick helping.
Here are a few anger management suggestions:
1. Admit we are angry. Hint, hint President Obama.
2. Take the top 100 financial evil-doers , foreclose on all of their mortgages/sell their houses in The Hamptons and force them to live in public housing for 18 years - in Detroit.
3. Scratch the planned $300M George W. Bush Presidential Center and "Freedom" Institute. Take the tax-deductible donations and build an Early Education Center on 25 acres of SMU land. Enlist Cheney as janitor and George W. as groundskeeper. Cheney deserves to scrub toilets, and we all know how well George W. clears brush. They could learn something from the four-year-olds about how to play well with others and to obey rules.
As for small things you can do to alleviate anger and regain control, try these:
1. Throw darts at photos of geeky insurance executives.
2. Burn tax returns and records (older than 7 years) - yes, I am a rebel.
3. Engage the entire family in meditation including teaching your cat the lotus position.
4. Pretend to be Survivor Man.
5. If all else fails, slam kitchen cabinet doors - it has always worked for my Mother.
Seriously, let's focus on turning a negative into a positive. For starters, we can convert our anger into wind energy or another clean fuel technology. I don't know about you, but when I'm mad, there's a lot of whirling and twirling. This leads me to believe there's a way to channel our adrenaline and eliminate the need for Middle East oil. One crisis fixes another! It's the American Way.
CitizenB
Saturday, March 7, 2009
I Swallowed A Lightning Bug
Citizens:
If there is one thing I'm really good at it's crying. I'm a Level 4 expert - and in a perpetual state of dehydration.
At Level 1 the tears flow freely at the usual events: giving birth, attending weddings, funerals, graduations, and really good or bad movies; and when your 18-year-old beagle dies.
Level 2 involves crying at hellos and goodbyes, Olympic medal ceremonies; when other people cry even when you're not sure why, when you're delirious and have a fever of 102, you're really pissed off, and of course, crying while simultaneously laughing in a fetal position (we've all done it).
The more complex Level 3 consists of crying before and after you back your car into a fixed object, wishing you could help someone who is really screwed up when you know you can't, upon hearing your mom's voice when you've had a bad day (yes, even when you're 40), and when your husband buys a mid-life crisis motorcycle. Note: My plan for revenge is to save my tears in a Tupperware container until enough to make a cocktail - and then serve them to Steve McQueen in a martini glass - straight up.
Level 4 goes beyond the norm and consists of crying after 9/11 at the joy of seeing a rat - yes, a filthy rodent - scurrying in the bushes outside your office (an affirmation that life goes on), and crying in 2nd grade while explaining to your teacher that the reason was because you're going to die from accidentally swallowing a lighting bug (firefly) you had trapped in a coke bottle the night before when the real reason was your parents were getting a divorce.
I've cried in every place imaginable - airports, sidewalks, Chinese restaurants, the mall (have you seen the shoe department at Nordstrom?), flower gardens, parking lots, The Louvre, on a swing set, and yes, even at work. Anyone who says there's no crying in Insurance Claims - they lie. Bathroom stalls obviously have more than one purpose and toilet paper is good for trapping the tears, snot and spit that form like a spiderweb over your face - the unfortunate physical side effects of an honest to goodness cry. The one highlight is your eyes appear greener when the swelling goes away.
Before you go off thinking I'm unstable, please know the crying at work thing happens only 1.5 times per year - totally in line with the national average for women crying in the workplace. It's sad but I'm fairly normal.
As an expert, I also have the ability to make grown men cry. I wish I could say it's my voluptuous figure that kills them; it just happens during regular conversation. Just this week I made two men cry.
The first was an encounter with an ex-coworker.
CitizenB: Gosh, I remember when you adopted the stray dog who took up residence in our parking lot - the unofficial office mascot. How is he?
Co-worker: Tearing up. Gulp. He died.
CitizenB: Oh, no. I'm sorry.
Co-worker: Yes, he had an undetected tumor and it erupted causing massive internal bleeding. He couldn't be saved. Now I'm left with my other two dogs and I really don't like them that much.
CitizenB: Yikes. It was nice seeing you.
The second encounter was with a Philadelphia attorney in mediation. I'll spare you the details but yes, I managed to evoke emotion and a tear in the eye of a hardened and burned out insurance defense attorney.
And now to the latest episode of CitizenB weeping:
Last night was a perfect storm for tears. What can I say, it was a typical Friday night.
First, it was the book I've been reading forever A Fraction of the Whole. Here's the excerpt (page 531) that made me cry:
"Dad, I forgive you."
"What for?"
"For everything."
"What everything? What did I ever do to you?"
Who is this irritating man? "It doesn't matter."
"OK."
"Dad, I love you."
"I love you too."
There. We said it. Good.
Or not so good - strangely unsatisfying. We'd just said "I love you." Father and son, at the deathbed of the former, saying we love each other. Why didn't that feel good? This is why: because I knew something that nobody knew or would ever know-what a strange and wonderful man he was. And that's what I really wanted to say.
Tears are spurting and I'm backhanding them out and away so I can see to read and continue to torture myself. After more dying, son throws father's body overboard from the people-smuggling vessel (you have to read the book) and into the sea where he bobs up and down a little like "a carrot thrown whole into a boiling stew." Sniff. Sniff.
Second, it was the book (again). I'm exhausted. And nauseous. But it's finally over. I'm finished. The book is closed but the story is still shooting from the pages - much like hairs sprouting from my husband's nose. Okay, so I can see up his nose as he sleeps next to me. It's a distraction. The book is actually vibrating from so many freaking words (247,962 - my estimate- using the same method as counting jelly beans in a jar to win a door prize) so I threw it across the bed and dried my tears.
Next I decided to watch "Friday Night Lights" on the DVR. I should have known better since I cried during last week's episode when former QB1/current paraplegic Jason Street's girlfriend buckled under the pressure of young motherhood, bundled their baby, packed up the U-Haul and moved to New Jersey to live with her parents leaving Street in his wheelchair behind in the street.
This week Street and current tailback Tim Riggins (the Jordan Catalano of Dillon Football) take a trip to New York City where Street manages to gain a job at a sports agency and an opportunity to be with his son.
Here's the scene when they make it to New Jersey:
Riggins stands by the cab while Street wheels up the walk and stops at the steps to the front door. This is as far as he can go. Fortunately, the girlfriend and baby come out and he doesn't have to yell "Stella!" Street holds his son and through tears gives the most heartbreaking plea ever on a network television drama. There's no way the girlfriend can say no and she doesn't. Cue to Riggins with tears in his eyes - his best friend finally has a shot at real happiness. He'll miss him, heck, the whole state of Texas will miss him.
Okay, I'm wiping returning tears into my ears and squelching weird primal noises coming from within all in an effort not to wake up the sleeping nose. Even Level 4 experts try to hide their tears.
Between the book, TV show, and real life, the father and son drama forced open the flood gates. What a rush.
CitizenB
If there is one thing I'm really good at it's crying. I'm a Level 4 expert - and in a perpetual state of dehydration.
At Level 1 the tears flow freely at the usual events: giving birth, attending weddings, funerals, graduations, and really good or bad movies; and when your 18-year-old beagle dies.
Level 2 involves crying at hellos and goodbyes, Olympic medal ceremonies; when other people cry even when you're not sure why, when you're delirious and have a fever of 102, you're really pissed off, and of course, crying while simultaneously laughing in a fetal position (we've all done it).
The more complex Level 3 consists of crying before and after you back your car into a fixed object, wishing you could help someone who is really screwed up when you know you can't, upon hearing your mom's voice when you've had a bad day (yes, even when you're 40), and when your husband buys a mid-life crisis motorcycle. Note: My plan for revenge is to save my tears in a Tupperware container until enough to make a cocktail - and then serve them to Steve McQueen in a martini glass - straight up.
Level 4 goes beyond the norm and consists of crying after 9/11 at the joy of seeing a rat - yes, a filthy rodent - scurrying in the bushes outside your office (an affirmation that life goes on), and crying in 2nd grade while explaining to your teacher that the reason was because you're going to die from accidentally swallowing a lighting bug (firefly) you had trapped in a coke bottle the night before when the real reason was your parents were getting a divorce.
I've cried in every place imaginable - airports, sidewalks, Chinese restaurants, the mall (have you seen the shoe department at Nordstrom?), flower gardens, parking lots, The Louvre, on a swing set, and yes, even at work. Anyone who says there's no crying in Insurance Claims - they lie. Bathroom stalls obviously have more than one purpose and toilet paper is good for trapping the tears, snot and spit that form like a spiderweb over your face - the unfortunate physical side effects of an honest to goodness cry. The one highlight is your eyes appear greener when the swelling goes away.
Before you go off thinking I'm unstable, please know the crying at work thing happens only 1.5 times per year - totally in line with the national average for women crying in the workplace. It's sad but I'm fairly normal.
As an expert, I also have the ability to make grown men cry. I wish I could say it's my voluptuous figure that kills them; it just happens during regular conversation. Just this week I made two men cry.
The first was an encounter with an ex-coworker.
CitizenB: Gosh, I remember when you adopted the stray dog who took up residence in our parking lot - the unofficial office mascot. How is he?
Co-worker: Tearing up. Gulp. He died.
CitizenB: Oh, no. I'm sorry.
Co-worker: Yes, he had an undetected tumor and it erupted causing massive internal bleeding. He couldn't be saved. Now I'm left with my other two dogs and I really don't like them that much.
CitizenB: Yikes. It was nice seeing you.
The second encounter was with a Philadelphia attorney in mediation. I'll spare you the details but yes, I managed to evoke emotion and a tear in the eye of a hardened and burned out insurance defense attorney.
And now to the latest episode of CitizenB weeping:
Last night was a perfect storm for tears. What can I say, it was a typical Friday night.
First, it was the book I've been reading forever A Fraction of the Whole. Here's the excerpt (page 531) that made me cry:
"Dad, I forgive you."
"What for?"
"For everything."
"What everything? What did I ever do to you?"
Who is this irritating man? "It doesn't matter."
"OK."
"Dad, I love you."
"I love you too."
There. We said it. Good.
Or not so good - strangely unsatisfying. We'd just said "I love you." Father and son, at the deathbed of the former, saying we love each other. Why didn't that feel good? This is why: because I knew something that nobody knew or would ever know-what a strange and wonderful man he was. And that's what I really wanted to say.
Tears are spurting and I'm backhanding them out and away so I can see to read and continue to torture myself. After more dying, son throws father's body overboard from the people-smuggling vessel (you have to read the book) and into the sea where he bobs up and down a little like "a carrot thrown whole into a boiling stew." Sniff. Sniff.
Second, it was the book (again). I'm exhausted. And nauseous. But it's finally over. I'm finished. The book is closed but the story is still shooting from the pages - much like hairs sprouting from my husband's nose. Okay, so I can see up his nose as he sleeps next to me. It's a distraction. The book is actually vibrating from so many freaking words (247,962 - my estimate- using the same method as counting jelly beans in a jar to win a door prize) so I threw it across the bed and dried my tears.
Next I decided to watch "Friday Night Lights" on the DVR. I should have known better since I cried during last week's episode when former QB1/current paraplegic Jason Street's girlfriend buckled under the pressure of young motherhood, bundled their baby, packed up the U-Haul and moved to New Jersey to live with her parents leaving Street in his wheelchair behind in the street.
This week Street and current tailback Tim Riggins (the Jordan Catalano of Dillon Football) take a trip to New York City where Street manages to gain a job at a sports agency and an opportunity to be with his son.
Here's the scene when they make it to New Jersey:
Riggins stands by the cab while Street wheels up the walk and stops at the steps to the front door. This is as far as he can go. Fortunately, the girlfriend and baby come out and he doesn't have to yell "Stella!" Street holds his son and through tears gives the most heartbreaking plea ever on a network television drama. There's no way the girlfriend can say no and she doesn't. Cue to Riggins with tears in his eyes - his best friend finally has a shot at real happiness. He'll miss him, heck, the whole state of Texas will miss him.
Okay, I'm wiping returning tears into my ears and squelching weird primal noises coming from within all in an effort not to wake up the sleeping nose. Even Level 4 experts try to hide their tears.
Between the book, TV show, and real life, the father and son drama forced open the flood gates. What a rush.
CitizenB
Monday, March 2, 2009
Text Messaging - The Old Fashioned Way
Dear Citizens:
I'm very lucky to have 15 terrific nieces and nephews. They're growing up quickly or in some cases already adults. We do our best to stay in touch. This sometimes requires technology beyond my abilities.
A couple of days ago I received a text message from my beautiful, big-hearted, and soulful 18-year-old niece Melissa. She lives outside Atlanta and texted an "I Love You" surrounded by a heart. Aw.
Short and sweet with a fun graphic - totally within current texting rules and etiquette. (Of course, I don't know how to replicate it for demonstration purposes.) However, she has a wacky e-mail address with a bunch of underscores and "yo's" and I can never make it work. We've talked about this in the past.
I responded or attempted to respond (see below) and after our exchange, I realized I'm a terrible text messenger or whatever the term is. I don't like code words and trying to hit tiny characters. The real issue is I choose not to abbreviate and cannot under any circumstance be brief. It's not in my nature (and why my Indian Ya Ya name is "Babbling Brook.") Go ahead. You try to text something meaningful in less than 160 characters! Plus the only "graphics" I know are periods and question marks.
Anyway, I've decided to revise my text response to Melissa to meet current text language standards (for persons under 40).
Old Text: "You, too sweetheart. I still get delivery failure when I e-mail you. When you have a chance e-mail me at citizenb and I'll save your address. Sorry I'm a corky aunt."
(Then I noticed my iPhone SMS took it upon itself to change my intended word "dorky" to "corky." )
"Make that corky." (It did it again!)
"D O R K Y" (I finally outsmarted it.)
Melissa: "Lol i love you and yep i will email you when I get home =)"
Revised Text: "U2 sweet<3. I stil gt mail-Dubya wen I emsg u. Wen UV a chnc emsg me @citizenb n Il save yr ADD. Sry I'm a corkus aunt."
"Mk tht corkus"
"D O R K U S" (definition below)
Now you know why I will never be employed as a Native American code talker. This career is obviously not my colored parachute and will be marked off my list along with underwater pipe-fitter and millionaire match-maker.
Anyway, I guess text messaging is here to stay at least until a new mobile technology takes over. At some point we will never need to speak to or touch another living being again. We can marry our handheld devices and be artificially inseminated with turkey basters. There will be no need for deodorant or breath mints.
Until then we must be aware of the reported dangers of text messaging: texting while driving, textwalking, broken thumb syndrome, drunk texting (TUI), text addiction and withdrawal, and underage sexting. What about losing IQ points, forgetting (or never learning) formal English, not to mention turning 12-year-olds into promiscuous bullies and brats?
Blame Japan where it all started - or Canada.
As an iPhone user and loving CitizenAunt of many, yes, I'll continue to text - the old fashioned & d o r k u s way. And now with interoffice instant messaging a daily requirement, I'll have to work on that skill.
Question? Is it okay to agree on a subject with a co-worker by responding "Cool Beans! + :@)"?
Too enthusiastic? Thought so.
CitizenB
Definition of Dorkus: "Someone who is dorky but just doesn't care that he/she is a dork, thus making them very cool in the eyes of other dorkii."
I'm very lucky to have 15 terrific nieces and nephews. They're growing up quickly or in some cases already adults. We do our best to stay in touch. This sometimes requires technology beyond my abilities.
A couple of days ago I received a text message from my beautiful, big-hearted, and soulful 18-year-old niece Melissa. She lives outside Atlanta and texted an "I Love You" surrounded by a heart. Aw.
Short and sweet with a fun graphic - totally within current texting rules and etiquette. (Of course, I don't know how to replicate it for demonstration purposes.) However, she has a wacky e-mail address with a bunch of underscores and "yo's" and I can never make it work. We've talked about this in the past.
I responded or attempted to respond (see below) and after our exchange, I realized I'm a terrible text messenger or whatever the term is. I don't like code words and trying to hit tiny characters. The real issue is I choose not to abbreviate and cannot under any circumstance be brief. It's not in my nature (and why my Indian Ya Ya name is "Babbling Brook.") Go ahead. You try to text something meaningful in less than 160 characters! Plus the only "graphics" I know are periods and question marks.
Anyway, I've decided to revise my text response to Melissa to meet current text language standards (for persons under 40).
Old Text: "You, too sweetheart. I still get delivery failure when I e-mail you. When you have a chance e-mail me at citizenb and I'll save your address. Sorry I'm a corky aunt."
(Then I noticed my iPhone SMS took it upon itself to change my intended word "dorky" to "corky." )
"Make that corky." (It did it again!)
"D O R K Y" (I finally outsmarted it.)
Melissa: "Lol i love you and yep i will email you when I get home =)"
Revised Text: "U2 sweet<3. I stil gt mail-Dubya wen I emsg u. Wen UV a chnc emsg me @citizenb n Il save yr ADD. Sry I'm a corkus aunt."
"Mk tht corkus"
"D O R K U S" (definition below)
Now you know why I will never be employed as a Native American code talker. This career is obviously not my colored parachute and will be marked off my list along with underwater pipe-fitter and millionaire match-maker.
Anyway, I guess text messaging is here to stay at least until a new mobile technology takes over. At some point we will never need to speak to or touch another living being again. We can marry our handheld devices and be artificially inseminated with turkey basters. There will be no need for deodorant or breath mints.
Until then we must be aware of the reported dangers of text messaging: texting while driving, textwalking, broken thumb syndrome, drunk texting (TUI), text addiction and withdrawal, and underage sexting. What about losing IQ points, forgetting (or never learning) formal English, not to mention turning 12-year-olds into promiscuous bullies and brats?
Blame Japan where it all started - or Canada.
As an iPhone user and loving CitizenAunt of many, yes, I'll continue to text - the old fashioned & d o r k u s way. And now with interoffice instant messaging a daily requirement, I'll have to work on that skill.
Question? Is it okay to agree on a subject with a co-worker by responding "Cool Beans! + :@)"?
Too enthusiastic? Thought so.
CitizenB
Definition of Dorkus: "Someone who is dorky but just doesn't care that he/she is a dork, thus making them very cool in the eyes of other dorkii."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
