After a couple days of way too deep thoughts, I sat down at my computer tonight without a thing to say. So, I flipped over to Facebook to see what was going on there. A friend is at the Four Seasons in New York. Another friend is looking for advice on how to break in her cowboy boots. Yet another friend recommended new Tide Pods for my laundry. All very standard stuff. Then, I glanced to the right sidebar where all the ads hand picked just for me appear. Something there caught my eye…an ad for stripper training here in Denver. Interesting. Not sure they reached their target audience for that ad. I doubt there is a clamoring demand for 43 year old mothers who strip, but it got my attention all the same. What made the ad doubly awesome, though, was that directly beneath it an ad for a gout study appeared. I don’t have gout, but if I did I’m assuming it would be even more unlikely that I’d be interested in that stripper training what with the painful inflammation in my feet and all. Gout might make dancing around in stilettos a bit more difficult.

The whole sidebar was so highly entertaining that I decided to keep refreshing the page to see what other ads might pop up for me. I was targeted to receive ads about the Nordstrom dress department, Pillsbury, a couple biking events, an autoimmune disease seminar, daily deals on outdoor gear, Knorr dip mixes, fibromyalgia, fun iPhone covers, and a wine sisterhood. Certainly the ads got some things right. I do bake, cycle regularly, and drink wine. I’ve also bought from outdoor gear web sites and have shopped at Nordstrom as well. I’m not, however, currently suffering from any major maladies, including autoimmune disease. At least, not as far as I know.

Some people get riled up about the whole Big Brother thing, about our information being out in cyberspace, about our lack of online privacy. I suppose I understand their concerns. Given what I saw tonight, though, I sincerely doubt we’re at Minority Report-level of advertising just yet. Maybe in an alternate universe I’m a gout-ridden, stripper wannabe. But, in this universe if online ads had me pegged, I’d see nothing but Starbucks, iTunes, and Target in my Facebook sidebar.

 

Went to dinner at the Rio in Steamboat tonight. Accidentally left a very nice server a $40 tip on a $28 tab. Damn you, tequila!

My boys have been busily playing something called Tiny Village on their iPhones (which are our old iPhone 3 devices without the phone capability). As far as I can tell, Tiny Village is something along the lines of a Flintstones version of Farmville. The boys have quarries, are fabricating tools, and keeping dinosaurs as pets. I figured that at best it was a lesson in delayed gratification supplemented with a small course in urban planning and development. At worst, it was a total waste of time. Still, they’re young boys and it’s better to have them building a village than blowing up things in a violent video game, right?

This morning Joe came into my room early and told me that the Tiny Village app told him to download something called Tiny Zoo Friends. Ummm…yeah. Seriously, dude? Your phone made you do it? I can see where society is headed. Anyway, when they asked for the zoo app, I  hesitated for a moment; and then I decided that the zoo sounded infinitely more fun than the prehistoric village, so I acquiesced and downloaded the free app for them.

And, then, I made my biggest mistake since Angry Birds. I downloaded the Tiny Zoo Friends to my iPhone too, reasoning that it would be good to learn what it was all about so I could share in the experience with my boys. I dropped them at school and headed home to figure it out. I started by purchasing the recommended jack rabbits. I bought a male and female and then, knowing what rabbits are wont to do, I made sure they instantly had two jack rabbit children. From there, I bought a set of black bears and gave them some offspring, and then I rounded out my creature collection with a family of my favorite, African elephants.

An hour later I began to figure out how it all worked. My creatures earned points, which I could then cash in to buy more items for my zoo. I purchased an ice cream stand, a popcorn cart, some play equipment for the kids, a set of butterflies, and some musk oxen. Before I knew it, I had run out of room in my zoo and needed to spend some coin for zoo expansion. Then I discovered that my zoo expansion would take four hours. Four hours? I can’t wait four hours. My spectacled bears need a habitat! I immediately looked into purchasing the fake coins necessary to expand my zoo instantly. It would cost me $4.99. I stopped. I took a deep breath. I reminded myself that I had hoped this game would teach my boys about delayed gratification. How could I be lecturing my boys about waiting when I nearly spent the monetary equivalent of a Starbuck’s triple venti vanilla latte on an imaginary zoo? Ugh.

I decided the best course of action would be to put the game down and just walk away. So, I did. For about three minutes. Then I was back at it. I ignored the time left on the zoo expansion and focused on rearranging my zoo to make it a nice environment. I picked up trash, I created an African animal section, and I moved the trees to increase the aesthetics. I checked the clock again. Crap. I still had nearly two hours until my zoo would expand. I needed to get away from this stupid game. I grabbed my yoga mat and went to class. An hour later, I returned to my car, refreshed and relaxed and freed of this wretched distraction on my phone, right? Wrong. The minute I started the car, I plugged my phone in and checked to see if the expansion was complete. Oh holy hell. I’m going to need a 12-step program. 

I wasted approximately four full hours of my life today on this game. I’ve spent most of my evening trying to justify this debacle. I think I finally found a way. I’m going to chalk it up to a learning experience. I’ve learned that it’s one thing to preach the virtue of delayed gratification, but it’s another thing entirely to try to live it.

 

Hubby and I escaped to Crested Butte this weekend with some friends. The plan…no kids, two days of skiing, uninterrupted meals with alcoholic beverages,  and a king-size suite with mountain view. We got here early this afternoon. First stop, the Brick Oven for pizza and beer. It was 2 p.m. Yes. I had a beer at 2 p.m. It was glorious. After lunch, we strolled around downtown Crested Butte (population: about 1500 crazy, skiing folks), checking out the restaurants and stores. As we were heading back up Elk Street, I saw something that stopped me dead in my tracks. You can’t be serious. Right there, just feet from the sidewalk, were two benches made out of wagon wheels. Wagon wheels have been a personal joke between Steve and I since the day he decided to install a whiskey barrel into our otherwise extremely natural and tastefully landscaped backyard. I told him that with that whiskey barrel we had officially arrived at one wagon wheel shy of white trash.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

“It’s a sign,” Steve said.

“Yeah. It’s a sign that too many people came west in covered wagons.”

Still, we had to sit on the stupid bench and have our picture taken. Apparently, I can escape my home life, the kids, the house, the chores. But, no matter what I do, I am doomed. I will never escape the wagon wheel.

 

The lovely suburban neighborhood we live in has its own Facebook page. It’s a good place to get an update about a missing dog or a school fundraiser. Neighbors share business information for reliable painting companies and helpful handymen. Folks will report the occasional rattlesnake bite or caution others about a bear sighting. In addition to all the useful updates I receive through following this group on Facebook, however, I am also privy to neighbor’s tirades about the HOA, the management company they hired, our waste disposal service, and the City of Littleton. Many days there is more drama on our neighborhood Facebook group than there is on any daytime soap opera on television. It can be like watching a train wreck with slightly less blood and gore.

I’m perpetually amazed, although mostly disappointed, by the vitriolic diatribes people will post on the Internet in a forum like our neighborhood one where they essentially then out themselves to their neighbors as hot-headed grumps with a poor grammatical skills. I know. I know. By posting my own harangue here about these people I’m essentially the pot calling the kettle out for its blackness. I prefer to imagine, however, that my verbal rants are at least a smidgen more coherent and a truckload less bitter.

What fascinates me is the way the Internet has opened up an entirely new avenue for people to share the worst of themselves with the world. Once there was a time when we might complain to a neighbor about something that annoyed us. Now we can instantly complain to an entire neighborhood. What people learn about us is no longer simply gossip. We can incriminate ourselves with lightning speed. We throw things up onto the Internet like we hurtle snowballs at a barn wall, expecting that our words like the snowballs will melt and disappear over time, but they don’t. The Internet isn’t ethereal. If you don’t believe me, just Google yourself and see what comes up. You might be surprised with how much a person can find out about you just by searching a few simple details on the Internet. What’s worse is that there is no context for the information that’s out there, so how people come to know us without actually knowing us is quite subjective.

Now, maybe some people don’t understand how they come across with instant media like a comment on a Facebook page. I’ll tell you this, though, from our little, innocent, neighborhood Facebook group, I’ve already formed a judgment about some neighbors without ever having met them. Their names and their nasty comments are etched into my brain. Is it right for me to form a judgement about someone before I know them? Of course not. But, it’s how things are now. I put my thoughts out there on the Web and people can believe they know me without truly knowing me at all. So, before you go off on some nasty tangent on Facebook (or any other trackable Internet site), you might take a second to contemplate whether what you’re saying is an adequate representation of who you truly are. You know, what my mother told me repeatedly as I was growing up holds especially true with the Internet. Maybe if you don’t have anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything at all?

My husband has a cold. (Insert sympathetic groan here.) He is home from work today…resting. My husband’s occasional “sick days” used to bother me greatly. Since my children were born, I have been gifted one sick day, a day when I was allowed to do nothing other than be sick. One. Even after two surgeries, I was up and going the very next day. In my 10.5 years in my current position, I’ve come to realize that moms don’t get sick days. It’s just the way it works.

In all fairness to Steve, he rarely gets sick so he rarely takes sick days. Still, I bet he’s stayed home maybe 5-6 days in the past 10 years which, any way you slice it, is a better sick leave policy than I have. Many of those days when he’s been home sick, I too have had the cold or flu or what have you. But, I’m the mom and the mom has Mom Duty. My kids, although somewhat sympathetic when I don’t feel well, are tough bosses. They expect me to carry on. If they need to be at Chuck E. Cheese’s for a school fundraiser, I’m required to put on my chauffeur’s cap, drive them there, pay for their meal, and then sit patiently for two hours in my misery while they run around have a grand old time. I’m not even supposed to curse them for the illness they gave me. Sigh.

I’ve been working to become more zen about the whole cold/sick day thing, but it’s been a long haul. I am not a highly sympathetic person. I come by this naturally. Growing up, when I was sick my mom would simply utter a dismissive “This too shall pass” and go back to her ironing. Don’t get me wrong. When I’m sick, I’m a big whiner. Huge. I give 15 minute updates on my condition. I’m sure it’s annoying. But I take loads of over-the-counter medicine and I carry on like the postal service on a snowy, blustery day. I don’t get a sick day to rest in solitary confinement and not bother anyone. I figure that if I have to keep going, I will. You’re going to hear about it, though.

Still, I ponder the Man Cold. Why is it that a cold shuts my husband down but I continue on? This morning, I went in search for an answer to that question. I found this article on WebMD that makes a lot of sense. Basically, the article claims that although there is no proof that for men and women cold symptoms are any different, our thresholds for perceiving and dealing with them are. Women are expected to soldier on, so we do. Men, whom society requires to be strong, take this temporary weakness more personally and use it as an excuse to be babied and taken care of. I guess I can understand that, at least on an intellectual level.

A couple weeks ago when the kids and I had the flu, however, I kept on with our normal routine. I popped Advil and Sudafed like Pez and cooked dinner, did laundry, and even walked the dog beast. So, it’s hard to buy into Steve’s misery when I don’t truly get to rest when I’m feeling poorly. I’m working on it, though. It’s going to take some time. Zen is a process. I am trying to look at the big picture. I mean, I did get to go skiing yesterday while Steve was at work, and he didn’t give me a hard time about that. So, maybe I can give him a break and let him loll about in bed today without making fun of him. Maybe. I reserve the right to post this semi-unflattering photo of him “resting,” though. If I have to wait on him today, the least he can do is gratefully supply me with blog material.

 

“Will there be another race to come along and take over for us? Maybe martians could do better than we’ve done? We’ll make great pets.” ~ Porno for Pyros

Last night, hubby and I watched a film with aliens life forms. I actually selected and had Netflix send me a movie about aliens. For years I avoided alien movies because of post traumatic stress disorder. No, I am not going to recount a tale of my own abduction into an alien ship where I experienced the dreaded alien probe because that did not happen. At least not yet.

But, when I was in sixth grade, I had an absolutely certifiable science teacher who taught a unit about extraterrestrials. I am not kidding. Thank you, Mr. Marcus, for showing us photos of cow mutilations and crop circles, for playing a recording of War of the Worlds without telling us that it was a performance based on a book and not an actual event, and for sharing with us photos of supposed unidentified flying objects. Seriously? I was an impressionable 12 year old with a vivid imagination. What were you thinking? Thanks to you I spent at least six months having bad dreams. (I still remember some of them, by the way.) Thanks to you even ET freaked me out. Thanks to you I was in my mid-20’s when I finally steadied my nerves enough to see Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Thanks to you I will never be able to watch Cloverfield, Body Snatchers, or even Cocoon. Okay. Maybe I’ll watch Cocoon someday, but I’ll probably never see District 9, which is too bad because I understand it was a fairly decent film. Yes, indeed. Thank you, Mr. Marcus, for scarring me for life because you wanted to share your fascination with the supernatural with a classroom filled with six graders. I bet you are retired and living in Roswell now, happy as a clam in your shiny, silver double wide, while I still suffer from the after effects of your teaching.

Anyway, I was reasonably impressed with myself for watching that alien movie last night without losing it. And, when I had to pause the movie and go downstairs to put my laptop to bed, I was proud of myself for holding it together in our dark house and walking back up the stairs even though I wanted to run because there could be an alien downstairs waiting to bite my head off once I let my guard down. Doesn’t matter if I had to give myself a little pep talk to work through that moment of fear, to take each step deliberately and without terror. I made it. I even turned the movie back on and finished it when I got back to bed. I consider that real progress…approximately 31 years in the making.

I kid about this now, but once it was quite real to me. There was a time when I couldn’t drive down a dark, isolated road at night without wondering when my car would suddenly lose power and I’d see the bright flash of light from a UFO. Since that time, however, I’ve been able to put a few decades worth of distance between me and those memories. I also found peace by reasoning that if aliens have been abducting scores of us and yet haven’t invaded, they must realize we’re not worth the trouble. They’re probably waiting until we’ve killed each other off so they can take over Earth without having to deal with unstable life forms on this planet. Or, if my worst nightmare (literally) comes true, then Perry Farrell of Porno for Pyros will have predicted it correctly and we’ll all become pets. Given my natural inclination toward random acts of mental terrorism from figures of authority, I’m sure I’ll make a wonderfully obsequious pet for some alien.