Paper Napkin

How it all began

On this day in history, along with communism falling in eastern Europe in 1989, and Joseph Goebbels terrorizing the Jews in 1938, in 1964 Aaron was born.

I have told you the story of our tragicomic honeymoon, but I don't think I've told you the story of our tragicomic first date.

Aaron had a friend named George from the army; they were stationed together in Egypt while Aaron was part of the UN peacekeeping force. After their years of earning college tuition were served, they went home: Aaron to L.A. and George Albuquerque. George was engaged to my friend Denise, and when Aaron came out for a visit he saw my picture on Denise's mantle and asked who I was. So they set us up on a blind date. It was a double date, because there was no way in hell I was going to try to make small talk all night with a complete stranger. So, we met at the Frontier Restaurant, a local college dive with the best Huevos Rancheros and cinnamon rolls on the planet, and hanging on the wall was the largest oil painting of John Wayne on the planet. 

I really didn't like Aaron much, at first. I thought he was a dumb jock, because he was tan, and cut and said "you know" a lot. I told Denise as much when we went to the bathroom, and she told me not to be so quick to judge, going to the gym does not cause brain cell depletion. (I think that remark alone illustrates why we were friends.)

We all decided to see a movie, down the street at the Lobo theater. What was playing?

The Accused.

Yes. On our first date, Aaron and I decided to see a movie about gang rape, a really graphic movie about gang rape. But you have to understand that this was 1988. Back when dinosaurs roamed the earth there weren't hundreds of websites where you could view trailers or read reviews. You opened up the newspaper (remember those?) and you chose a movie based on a 1x2" picture and what time it was showing.

Sitting next to someone you barely know, watching guys line up to rape Jodie Foster is a wee bit uncomfortable. And even worse is being in your 20s and pretending to be callus and cosmopolitan, like you see this everyday. Hey, no biggie. I see this all the time. That's why I'm staring at a nine foot vagina with this completely blank expression. Yep, I've been around the block. If I haven't seen a couple of assaults before breakfast, it throws my whole day off. 

So after that fiasco, we went out for drinks, where we got into a heated debate about something or other. A debate which Aaron won, and it's very rare that I meet someone who can out argue me, so I was convinced he was not a dumb jock and I'd be up for a second date. A few years later we got married, George and Denise both came out as gay, and the rest is history.

Maybe we should change the name to Manipulative Media

If you don't use Twitter, you'll want to skip the following diatribe. Maybe even if you do.

This morning I was scrolling through Twitter when I came upon a link to an article on how to inflate your follower count. I won't link to the article, because I see a lot of posts of this ilk. There are scads of them out there, and there's no need to pick on one particular tool. Essentially, they could all be titled: How To Pretend You Really Care About People So You Can Get A Zillion Followers.

Articles like this make my blood boil. And then they make my blood run cold. And then they make my blood yank a tree trunk out of the ground and toss it like a caber. In short, these articles make my blood do a lot of debilitating things, and now I have tired blood.

This is the ugly side of Social Media. It's disingenuous and it's wrong, and it's probably why I have fewer than 500 followers while the author of said article has 6000+. Not to say that few followers is a virtue. I wish I had more followers, and there are a lot of smart, terrific people out there with crowds of followers. I'm arguing that there is an honest and a dishonest way to acquire followers, and yes, I'm being pissy and dogmatic.

The author of this article asserts that people don't pay much attention to the people they follow. He claims the tweets which catch people's interest are tweets which benefit them. If you want to get people to follow you, you need to somehow cater to them. Reel the fish in by putting a nice juicy worm on the end of the line.

This is nothing new, it's the Dale Carnegie approach to Twitter. Yes, it works. And it bothers me. Look, I want to entertain and edify. I think it's great to cater to people, and try to help them. There are lots of people helping other people on Twitter (@drew, @leila_c, @stacymonk that I can think of right off the top of my head). But if you're only helping people for a return on your investment, that makes you a douche bag.

You know what's really freaky? I follow people on Twitter because I think they're interesting, or clever, or I like them. Bizarre, right? Occasionally I will follow someone because they seem to like me and frequently @ or RT me. But I can say without exception, I pay attention to every lovely one of the people I follow. I think about what they're saying and I love their stories, and I value them as people even though I've never met them. Isn't that what being social means?

If you're primarily following people to get them to follow you, that's not social. That's slimy.

Do I dare to eat a peach?

I don't really think of myself as old, although I haven't been carded in years. I don't feel old, and I don't really think 43 is considered old unless you're under 18. Nevertheless, there are certain trends I can no longer ignore.

• I often drive 5 miles under the speed limit
• The last thing I want to hear is the baseline coming from the radio in the car next to me.
• I go to sleep at the same time as my 11 year old
• Occasionally I begin a sentence, "When I was your age..."
• I just got my first pair of bifocals

• I say headphones instead of earbuds
• This sounded fun 
• To my mind, sick means ill
• I have never typed ROFL, and very rarely do I use lol
• I don't feel the need to share every feeling I'm having. In fact, I'm increasingly private.
• I don't feel the need to convince people. To wit, many people I know don't "believe" in global warming. I'm not sure HOW they don't believe it, but OK.
• Sometimes I wear my slippers to the grocery store.
• Patriotic songs make me cry.
• The other day I heard a Cure song in the elevator
• My crush on Zac Effron is a little creepy

To complete my journey I just need a few cats, a house filled with HSN items, and more facial hair.

C is for Cookie

As you may be able to tell by Google's main page, it's the 40 anniversary of Sesame Street. I loved it when I was a kid and so did 2 of my 3 kids. Here are my 4 favorite Sesame Street Videos.

Ernie does a little soft shoe

Song about the number 9

R.E.M. sings with monsters

Song about the number 10

I encourage you to click on one of those links, you'll be glad you did.

Let me just apologize in advance.

I'm just going to come right out and say it. I'm hiding in the internet. I know none of you out there suffer from this. None of you spend too many hours surfing the net, staring glassy-eyed at your monitor, but I do. Hanging up my blogging gloves has been a really good decision. I've been present in my real life. I feel better. I function better and am generally happier when I don't spend much time on the internet. My summer was awesome.

And then my kids started school and all that went to hell. Frankly, I miss them terribly. I don't like spending all day everyday alone. I'm lonely. And since apparently I suck at making friends, I've been hiding on the internet since school started. (Yes, I know all about Amanda's foolproof strategy, but I'm a rotten conversation starter, and I don't feel comfortable asking strangers questions. My fear of bothering people is pathological. I'm not kidding. The other day I was in IHOP, I ordered sausage and the waiter brought me bacon, and I said thank you because HE WAS BUSY, AND DOES NOT HAVE TIME FOR MY PETTY TYRANNY. So if I won't impose upon someone I'm paying, what do you think are the chances of me chatting up some stranger on a plane? It's known as Jante Law, and I'm under it, baby.  I've got Norwegian* blood running through my veins, which is probably why I still listen to a Prairie Home Companion, even though it jumped the shark long ago: those are my people. )

(And while we're parenthesizing, I've mentioned I'm short, yes? I'm 4' 10" and I dread it when the grocery stores have sales on 2 liter bottles of soda, because invariably all grocery stores stock their 2 liter bottles on the top shelf, which I can't possibly reach, not even when I try to meditate on ice cream so I will levitate a few feet off the floor. So then I have to STAND THERE waiting for some nice tall person to happen by, and ask them to retrieve some diet Coke, and let me tell you I die a little every time I have to do it. Oh, they say they're happy to help me, and on the outside it looks like they were just tossing lettuce and couscous into their cart, but I know they were ACTUALLY on the verge of solving some complicated theorem which would have cured Swine Flu, and the current pandemic could have been wiped out if only I hadn't needed my precious diet Coke.) 

So, yeah, I'm hiding in the internet. So then I figured, hell, I'm spending so much time here anyway, I may as well start the presses again, and here I am for the next 26 days for your reading pleasure. 

I can't remember where I was going with this. Blah, blah, blah, something, something, something, I need to stop hiding in the internet. And now I'm wondering whether I should even publish this, because you have better things to do than read this drivel. See? Pathological. I told you.

*My maiden name is $irkel. Disguised to prevent Googling