Too Tired To Tweet

Every time I call my 81 year old grandmother on the cell phone I gave her 2 1/2 years ago the call connects, I can hear her somewhere in the distance saying "Okay, now, which button is it?", followed by a disconnect. She then calls me back from her home phone, and tells me I need to teach her how to answer "that damn thing".

Now, my grandmother is a highly intelligent woman, so I have to ask myself how she came to a place where something we take for granted is too difficult to master? How is it that one becomes unable to keep up with progress?

The answer is, it sneaks up on us when we're not looking.

When we're young and single and only responsible for number one we have the attention span required to grasp every new advance out of the box. But once we're married and/or have children, when we become responsible for not just another person's well being, but their schedule, as well as our own (and maybe it's for 3 or 4 or 5 other people) we start purging our lives of things that are less necessary, like what-in-the-heck does "4G" stand for, anyway?

We also start becoming more judgemental of things that threaten to take our time. For example, I have never nor will ever have a 'MySpace' page. It reminds me of an online dating site on LSD. And yet, the more civilized Facebook finally dragged me, kicking and screaming, into the world of social networking in 2007. In my estimation, this was all I had time for. I could check my email on my Blackberry, and go home and lurk on Facebook for a bit while doing laundry. What else did I need?

I can see how I might have looked up one day, through the ancient eyes of an elder, and not known where my tidy, easy, little world went. Except that the Latin Lover talked me into upgrading to a Droid. "What do I need with a touch-screen," says I? "I LIKE my buttons!" 2 months later in a text: OMGSH, I luv this phone!! I think I could control NASA from here!!

And Tweeting? WTH? What's a tweet? If you tweet does that make you a twit? I don't need ONE MORE THING to keep me from doing the laundry, right? Except that now I find out that writers can use it as a marketing tool. A what? Well, read THIS BLOG for starters. And then jump over to THIS BLOG and scan through the comments for Nathan Lowell and the thread related to what he said.

The good news is someday I am going to be an 81 year old author who can use a cell phone, and a BlueRay player, who Tweets, and posts, and touches screens.

But by then my granddaughter will have given me a holographic monocle projection device, and I'll be asking her to teach me how to answer the damn thing.

Not Just Another Stupid Holiday

Eight months ago my Latin Lover, my husband, and I underwent a terrible, terrible separation. We almost didn't recover. But December 7th we were given a second chance, and we chose to take it. Through the healing process I have struggled with trust issues, and security issues, and the idea that his love may be lacking because he doesn't express it in ways I know him to be capable of. It is a long and rocky road to recovery.

But today, when I was content knowing that someday we would have the intensity we deserved, my magnificent man threw me a curve.

He began texting in the morning: Ha

Then every hour or so, a new one: pp

Y

Va

Le

Nt

In

Es

Da

Y

It took all day, but he wanted me to know he was thinking about me all day, and he wanted me to think of him. And then, the most precious gift... a Facebook post for all the world to see that read:

True love stories never have endings... 4350 days and counting... Happy Valentines Day To My Wife.

I cried for 10 minutes.

Then when he walked through the door, I threw my arms around him and cried some more. It's the best Valentine I've ever gotten. More even than the sense of love I felt, he gave me a strong, beautiful hope. Roses?! We don't need no stinkin' roses!

Some Days Are Just Utilitarian

I would like to say that I am creative every day. I would also like to say, "I'm afraid I don't have change for your $50 bill, all I have are these hundreds."

There are days, like today, that are just an incredibly long run-on list of To Do's. Nothing exciting, nothing creative, nothing even remotely approaching fun. But the truth of the matter is, we have to get those things done and out of the way to make time for the mystery that is tomorrow.

I don't mind chores and errands. It gives me time to rest my creative self and stop real life from building into an overwhelming mountain of stuff needing done. That does, however, put a lot of pressure on tomorrow to be entertaining and inspiring... I hope it doesn't let me down.

It rarely does.

The Difference An Hour Can Make

Truthfully, this post should be titled 'The Difference 3 Ounces of Tequila and a Half Ounce of Grand Marinier Can Make'. About an hour ago, I was feeling very creative, a little introspective, and peaceful, for lack of a better word. Therein lies the problem. One Double Margarita, and One Special Margarita later, I have a lack of better words. I'm feeling a little more relaxed, but my brain feels constricted. I recall what I wanted to post about, but I don't know if I'm capable of actually getting the words out. Let's try, shall we? I can't let the stress take me down.

I was thinking about when I first wanted to write, and I was shocked to discover it was in grade school. My best school work was done via essays with my own illustrations. In Junior High, I took creative writing classes and art classes and, needless to say, that was where the rubber met the road. I excelled in the writing class and barely passed art.

Nowadays, I feel repressed and... dare I say it... afraid to write. I have no idea how one gets to this point in their lives, but I have this unexpressed part of myself. I don't know if it's because I think I'm a crap writer, or if I have too many other unexpressed issues, but it really does look like I'm *GASP*... blocked.

I know, I know, that is a fictitious state of being, but I don't know what else to call it. I did discover something this year, though.

I am a kick-ass editor. AND I LOVE IT. I can proofread circles around folks, and I have a wonderful enough grasp of the english language to know when you've screwed up. I still adhere to the idea that I probably cannot edit myself a fraction as well, and will be procuring an editor for my own future work, but I can read anything in the english language, and make it better.

It's like that commercial, 'we don't make the plastic you use, we make it better'. I can do that with your web content, I can do that as your beta-reader, I can do that with your ebook.

But, I have no degree, and no portfolio to speak of. So would I hire me? Probably not. I have submitted an offer to a website that I respect; one that had a definite issue, so we'll see if I can get my start somewhere.

So am I crazy? I mean, who loves editing? Who can do a better job than spell-check in most cases? What kind of literary maniac knows that your punctuation, or lack thereof, bites?

I know, it's just me. But in that case, I've got a corner on the market, baby! And looks like neither hell, nor excessive tequila can stop me! Sweet!

Just promise me that tomorrow you will NOT tell me how many times I insisted that I love you, man. No really, I love you.

Sounds To Avoid

Living in the Midwest, one may enjoy the full range of seasons throughout the year in all their glory. Spring is a true awakening of the earth, with gorgeous colors, delicate aromas, the sounds of new life. Summer is green as green can be, the glorious heat enticing us to the pools and lakes, thunderstorms a pounding symphony. Fall slowly transforms the green into a collage of reds, yellows, oranges, while the atmosphere begins to cool, to calm, the aromas turn to spice, and smoke, and earth, the wind a musical swirl. Then Winter ushers in the peaceful snowfalls, the distinct smell of cold, and the sounds.... the sounds. The sound of snow crunching under tires, the sound of sliding, the sound of a truck grill striking a break-away light pole, the sound of said light pole plummeting and crashing on the road below.

Ah yes. The sounds of a $1000 deductible.