These Words

Yesterday, I recieved this text message from my husband:

"Leaving Suitland Now."

Wait. Sorry. That's not the one I was looking for.

I meant this one: "Nice blog today. You're such a good writer. Don't ever stop."

I tell you, I floated all afternoon. Little puffy clouds of consonants and verbs, his words.

***
My friend sent me a text the other day. It said,  "One month after being told she needed a hysterectomy...my sister is PREGNANT!!!!"

Right there, in the middle of the Baltimore Train Museum, I cried happy tears. These words were a electronic current of hope, and having found its connection, there is now light.

***
A friend texted, "Is it bad when your kids are in the backseat pretending to drink beer out of their sippy cups?"

And just like that, I'm not alone.

***
I texted my brother, telling him that Dune was the stupidest movie ever.  I said, "Presently, they are milking a cat."

He replied, "Well of course. How else can Thufur Hawat become a Harkonnen?"

These words were a time machine. We were once again in our living room, resplendent in our nerdy self-confidence. Just like that, I was home.

***
People argue that we are becoming less connected because of technology. I disagree.

These words are electronic gifts. I celebrate, laugh, commiserate, and love---one text at a time.

So tell me...got any good texts lately?

The Death of a Luddite.

There once was a girl (read: ME)  who prided herself on being a technological curmudgeon. No high-speed Internet, a cell phone from the Clinton administration, and a tape deck in the car. How delightful it was to point down her oh-so-superior nose at the masses, huddled over their electronic beeble-boppers like cavemen huddling around an errant spark!

"Oh, I don't text," she sneered. "I'm not, you know, like fifteen." She fancied herself too above-it-all, too busy actually living to spend time Facebooking or Twittering or blogging. I mean, really.

Then, her youngest son spent some time in the NICU, and she realized how very, very nice it was to use her ancient cell phone, and how therapeutic it was to write his story via email. She got a Facebook account to make this process more accessible, which eventually morphed into a blog.

Her son has been home and wrecking havoc for some time now, but the blog and the Facebook, and the Twitter, and yes, Lord Help Us, the text messaging have become important. In fact, this technological sixth sense has usurped prior activities, including basic human hygiene (more on that momentarily) and clean floors.

So, thus, a moment of silence for the passing of this girl's Technological Luddite-Hood. She has crossed the final threshold: She now own a PDA.

With her new PDA, she can read all of Mrs. 4444's Friday Fragment contributions, as well as bring her own to the oh-so-technologically advanced table. Join her, won't you?



***
Enough with the third person! Yech. Is there anything more disturbing than people who routinely refer to themselves thusly? When I first moved to Maryland, I applied to teach English at a local high school. The principal referred to himself in third person throughout the interview: "John South runs a tight ship. John South is very impressed with your references. John South wonders if you would like to be a member of our Freshman Academy."

I replied, "Nancy Campbell has another interview tomorrow, but she will be sure to get back to you."

It took all of my effort not to run out of that school as if I was being chased by Zombie John South:

The Memoirs of John South

***

I learned yet another valuable lesson from my friend Janet. When I saw her a few weeks back, I noticed her rubbing her long, beautiful black hair with baby powder.

"Why are you doing that?" I queried.

"It sucks up the grease so I don't have to shower awhile longer."She gave her hair a good shaking, and sure enough, it appeared clean and smelled nice to boot.

There are times in your life when you hold brilliance in your hand. Suffice to say, my hair smells remarkably like a fresh diaper these days. (Note: if you choose to try this yourself, heed my warning and rub it in really well. Otherwise, you look dirty and a bit like a coke fiend.)

***
Owen was sitting next to Joel, giving him hugs and kisses. He patted him gently on the head and cooed, "I love you Joely." Then, without pausing, he turned to Paul and asked, "Are you going to take my picture now?"

***
As mentioned before, we purchased new cell phones. They do everything but make piping hot french fries. I downloaded a free ap for various ringtones. Out of all the possible selections, I chose Miley Cyrus's "Party in the U.S.A". Paul, of course, questioned my taste. I told him to ask his co-workers if this song was A) Awesome or B) Lame.

He got two responses: "I've never heard of that song." and "I like that song but I'm too embarrassed to tell anybody."

Well, Paul. I think somebody just got served. That's a ringing (sorry) endorsement if I ever heard one.

***
I've been running into the mother of a former student a lot recently. Her daughter is doing early-application to a prestigious school, and I said to her today, "Well, just trust that she'll end up exactly where she needs to be." The mother's eyes welled up a bit, and she said, "I know that's true. But letting go is the hardest thing I have ever done."

It made me think that with all of the chaos and noise in my life with the toddlers, they are still mine for awhile. When the day comes that I will drive away from their college campuses, and look at those empty seats in the car, it will hurt. A good hurt, perhaps, but it will ache nevertheless.

I'm yet to understand the daily bravery it takes to parent teenagers and young adults. I'm sure God does it that way on purpose.

***
Happy Friday to all. Stay dry!

Tweet-ker

Confession: I own a Twitter account.

Twitter is what all the cool kids were doing a few months ago. Now that it has entered my radar, it is probably on its way out. For those of you living under rocks, Twitter is a social networking tool where you can send out "Tweets," short statements which update your followers about the minutia of your day. This is usually done via text messages on phones.

So, although I own a Twitter account, I do not Tweet for the following reasons:

1) Do I really need another venue to overshare? Besides writing about myself every day on this here blog, I have email and a Facebook account. Even my narcissism has bounds.

2) I don't text message. My phone has texting features, but I have never used them, and consider this to be an odd point of pride.

I've always been late to the whole cell-phone party. Paul and I didn't get cell phones until 2001, when we were driving across the country. We've updated our phones once since then. I often let my phone battery go dead, and I don't give out my cell number unless specifically asked.

I have a phone now because I have two small children, and you never know. However, I consider myself a cell-phone Luddite.

(Ironically, I saw a friend's iPhone recently, and found myself saying, "I totally want one of those." Such is the power of shiny gadgetry.)

3) The third reason I do not use my Twitter account is that I'm afraid nobody would follow me. There, I said it.

So, now that I've laid all that out, I'll totally contradict myself and share the Tweets I Could Have Sent. People of the Internet, you can tell me if I should do this for real, or if my initial instinct was best.

6:30 AM: Why is Joel half naked? And why does he have washboard abs?

7:30 AM: The scrambled eggs Owen so desperately needed, do not, as suspected, float in his milk.

9:oo AM: No, Owen, I wasn't planning on doing the 30 Minute Shred today. If you have something to tell me, just say it.

9:30 AM: No nap this morning, off to the dump and the gym.

10:45 AM: I love the old ladies at World Gym, lifting their three pound weights in their shiny purple tracksuits.

11:15 AM: Kimberly the Yoga Instructor is here. Yay!

11:17 AM: Oh Shit. Balance work.

12:25 PM: The mere fact that we are in Prince Frederick does not mean it is time for lunch at Panera, my young carb-loving consumer.

1:30 PM: Why, Owen, why have you decided that we must change into PJs for afternoon naps?

2:00 PM: Pretty uneventful day. I'll blog about Twitter, I guess.

Well, Internets, the future of my Twitter account is in your hands.

Don't get drunk on your power.

(Oh, and my twitter account is camp1974)

Facing the book (and bonus! Klingon Names)

Yo, yo, yo. Yick-Nan* is in the hizzy. The baby is sleeping, the other boy is spending quality time with his grandparents, and the coffee is hot and good. How you like me now???

I've been swimming in a sea of nostalgia, thanks to Facebook. Facebook turned five years old this week, and the guy who created it is a gazillionare. I have to accept the fact that people born in the eighties are adults now, too. It's entirely possible to be born during the Reagan Administration AND be successful. My brother-in-law would argue that they are successful BECAUSE of the Reagan "Revolution," as he insists on calling it. I'm choosing not to argue this point, because the point I am trying to make is this: the 24-year old Facebook Gazillionare, Mark Zuckerberg, deserves every penny. Facebook is rad.

It all started innocently enough. Brother Tom opened an account with pictures of his band. I got an account just to look at his pictures. This was back in April. I basically ignored my page until August. Joel had been at Hopkins, and the computer was my lifeline. Each day, after spending time with Owen and my parents (after seeing Joel at the hospital), I would go to the computer to read the emails (well-wishes and prayers) and to update interested parties regarding Joel's progress. It saved me, partially because I wrote to make sense of it all.

Joel got better, and one day, I opened up my Facebook page and wrote, "My younger son is eleven days old." Then, I started friending people. Then, I started doing a daily status updates. You know where this is heading, because it's the same story for most people. I became addicted.

Now, I check my page at least three times a day. Thanks to a click of the mouse, I've reconnected with my entire past. It's a party where all the groups meet and mingle, but without the awkwardness. Youth group friends chit-chat with friends from Tucson. College friends and playgroup friends seamlessly blend together into the category of "my peeps."

Last night, instead of sleeping, I talked to two of my old roommates from NAU, and we were the exact same people---just a little wiser, and more prone to talking about "the good ol' days." It was an intimacy that doesn't translate as well in occasional phone calls or annual Christmas newsletters.

Just like that, we're close friends again. So, thank you Mark Zuckerberg, you rich Harvard dropout, for expanding my world and bringing my friends back.

Even though you're just a young whippersnapper.

*Yick-Nan is my Klingon name. Yes, I determined my Kingon name my freshman year of college. It was a late night. Wanna play? Say your name backwards. For example, my sons' Klingon Names are Ne-wo and Le-oj. Those actually sound like Ewok names, but, if said in a gruff Klingon voice, they are quite menacing. OK, my dork card is FULL for this post.

Technical Feminist?

When it comes to things technological, Paul and I decided a long time ago that it's his problem. Setting up the computer, the stereo system, cell phones---that is strictly Paul territory. He gets it in a way that I don't, so there you have it.

Paul is a very patient person, and can explain things well. A big part of his present job is teaching and mentoring other people, and he has an endless reserve of patience. He used to man the help lines for TurboTax (I imagine the calls now go to India instead of Tucson, AZ). Just imagine those calls. Frantic people ready to toss grenades at their PCs during tax season. I cannot imagine the vitriol angry people have flung his way. Nevertheless, he received positive feedback and was asked to work for Quicken full-time.

He declined, and now deals with angry government contractors, instead. The point of all this is that he can explain complicated technological things to most people respectfully, thoughtfully, and in a way that is easily understood.

Unless he is talking to me. Whenever I ask him a technological question, the response is always the same: "Move." He'll then quickly do some voodoo on the computer or DVD player, or whatever. Problem solved, he'll turn to me, and as if it was the first time I've ever heard it, he'll say, "Ohhhh, and you're welcome!"

This line is from a Saturday Night Live skit circa 2002.

For quite some time, this arrangement worked well for me. Then we had children. Understand that my parents live in Colorado and only see the boys three or so times a year. My mother, in particular has a need to see updated pictures of the boys---to then print, slap in "Grandma's Brag Book," and show to innocent, Croc-wearing bystanders. While it makes me happy to know that there's a person in the world who coos over each droplet of drool and every wide-eyed smile of my progeny, it does complicated the technological relationship Paul and I have fostered over the years.

Mom needs pictures like an addict needs her fix. Paul and I keep her withdrawls at bay by posting digital pictures to Snapfish. For the longest time, I had no idea how to do this. So, I would ask Paul to do it, and he would say, "Later." Clearly, he did not understand the urgency.

I, on the other hand, would get daily phone calls from my mother. She would attempt to talk about other things, but she would, at the end of every call, oh-so-casually ask, "Have you had a chance to post any new pictures yet?" With each "no," the sighs grew deeper and longer, and I felt guilty for depriving my mother of such a small pleasure.

So, I took the leap and learned how to post pictures to Snapfish. It's not hard at all. If it was, Snapfish wouldn't make any money.

However, just today, I was talking to Mom. After I got off the phone, I attempted to download some shots, only to discover that I needed to log out of my account and get onto Paul's in order to do it. That was just too much work, so I decided to write this instead, and let Paul do it.

Sorry, Mom. Despite my attempt to bring our technological relationship from a traditional patriarchy to a modern partnership, the struggle is still there. Someday, maybe, I'll make the final crack in that glass ceiling, but in the meantime, I hope you enjoy the pictures I'll send you soon---from when Owen was a baby.