Pet Peeves

I have a bad habit of laughing at things that some people might not find so funny.  Or maybe more like, I laugh at stuff that most people DO find funny but have the good sense not to laugh about openly because it’s inappropriate.  Yeah, that’s more like it.   Consider this opening statement to be your warning.

I come from a family of savages.  We’re not what you'd call animal lovers.  This isn’t to say that we hate them, or that we’d ever be cruel or abusive to them (consider THAT your disclaimer).  We’re just not “those” kinds of people.  The kind that buy Halloween costumes for dogs, share a warm cup of milk with a cat, or hang Christmas stockings for pet goldfish.   You get the idea, right?  Good. 

When it comes to animals, of course we think they’re cute and furry and cuddly.  The biggest difference between “those” people and us is that we don’t get very attached to our animals.   For me, at this point in my life, I'm not interested in having anything else around that eats or poops.  Add in crotch-sniffing and feet-licking and I REALLY lose interest.  All of this could have something to do with the fact that, for many years, my dad was in the business of racing and training greyhound dogs.  I just think that pets are nice for other people.  I enjoy visiting other people's pets, until they start the sniffing and licking business (the pets, not the people).

IMPORTANT NOTE:  If you’re one of those pet lovers and hearing of animal suffering of any kind is going to make you vomit or pass out or hate me, then you really should stop reading here.   Back to my story…

So our dad raced and trained greyhound dogs.  He was never abusive to them, as far as I can remember.  They were always well cared for; clean, fed, let outside several times a day, yadda yadda yadda.  Here’s the rub:  At some point, as with all animals, their health would deteriorate.  They’d become ill, sometimes with illness that was not treatable and could potentially spread through the kennel to other animals.  So, dad did what any compassionate dog owner would do in that situation.  He took them out to the desert, shot them in the head, and buried them.  You think that’s horrible, don’t you?  Just wait.  There’s more.

We lived out in the country on several acres of land.  Dad built a make-shift track on which to train the dogs for their real races.  And everyone knows that if you want the dog to chase the little lure around the track, the best way to make that happen is to use live bait.   He’d buy a crate of five or six little bunnies.  Happy, furry, cute, soft, BREATHING little bunnies.  When it was time for them to do what they were born to do (die in the name of racing and excessive gambling), he’d take one out of its cozy little crate, whack its head against the side of a steel bar to knock it out, and hang it on the lure to eventually be devoured by a very ambitious—and hungry—greyhound.

Hey, don’t even start with me.  I TOLD you to quit reading way back there.

So knowing what I’ve told you thus far (I’m stopping there for fear of legal ramifications), is it any wonder my siblings and I don’t let ourselves bond with animals?  It’s an emotional defense mechanism.  With all of the canine killing and bunny bludgeoning that went on around us, it’s incredible to me that at least one of us didn’t end up a serial killer. 

I got to thinking about my attitude towards animals recently when a friend of mine, we’ll call her Liz (because that’s her name) had a rather traumatic experience involving two of her pets.  And yes, I laughed about it.   It seems that on Christmas morning, she and her children awoke to find that their cat had made a holiday meal out of their pet bird.  Did I mention I laughed about this?  I couldn’t help it.  I apologized to her for laughing, but then proceeded to make more jokes about it.  Defense mechanism, remember?   In the process of having her pain mocked by me, she opened up about other pet-related catastrophes in her lifetime, which made me laugh even harder.  I’m going to hell, I know it.  In case you’re someone like me who laughs at things you shouldn’t, I’ll share her experiences for the sheer entertainment value. 

There was the time she opened (or closed, I can’t remember, but it’s not important here) her garage door, only to discover she had hung her cat in the process.  You’re right, it’s not funny.  But yes it is.  Then there was the time that her cute little birdie was chasing a relative down the hall and the relative—out of fear for his/her own safety—ran into a bedroom and slammed the door.  Can you guess what happened?   Turns out birds don’t make very good door stops.

All of this is so amusing to me because I thought I had the worst luck with pets.  But I think Liz may carry more of a curse than I do.  Or, we may be neck and neck.  Take, for example, the time my grandma, much to my mother’s dismay, gave me a cute little baby chick for a pet.  I was around age five at the time, I think.  That stupid chicken would run all over the house.  I had no idea at the time how much that just annoyed the snot out of my mother.  One time, as it ran through the kitchen and mom was at the sink doing dishes, she took a step back and, CRUNCH, injured chick.  I was not very happy with mom about this.  I think mom was just plain not very happy that the injuries were only superficial.  But don’t judge her.  I can’t say for sure.   I was insistent that, as part of her penance for so carelessly stepping on my feathered BFF, she do round-the-clock nursing and let the thing sleep in her bed.  Being the good mom that she was and is, she agreed to this arrangement.  The bird was dead by morning.   When you’re a heavy sleeper and you roll over on a chicken in the night, you tend not to notice.   

Is it wrong that I’m snickering as I write this? 

Wanna hear about my cute little yellow lab puppy who died the first night I had him because he drank his tick bath water?  Probably not.  Or maybe my cat, Edwin who liked to crawl up in the car engine to keep warm on cold mornings?  I didn’t think so.

That’s enough storytelling for today.  Even I’m getting depressed.

A Christmas Message for the Frazzled

It’s Christmas time and I’m officially losing it. Anytime anyone brings up how busy they are, how much they have to do, how much money they don’t have and are going to spend anyway...well…I burst into tears. I can relate. I feel the hurt. I want the ride to stop and let me off. But I know it’s not going to stop. It’s going to keep going…and going…faster and faster…until it eventually becomes my own personal holiday tilt-a-whirl, complete with dizziness and nausea.

Women are the worst about this stuff. We smile through the pain of baking and frosting and Christmas program hopping and shopping till our feet--and our bank accounts--are on fire. All the while we’re stressing and panicking and budgeting. We do it all in an effort to simply “get through the holidays.” This phrase has become an overused and sad commentary on the Christmas season. I want that phrase to be banned, and I’m starting with me.

I don’t want to just “get through” the holidays. I want to enjoy them. I want to cherish them. I want to fa-la-la-la-LOVE them. Many of you have known me for a long time. You know how I’ve always felt about Christmas. Some of you were there the year I turned sixteen and my wonderful friends surprised me with a Christmas party for my birthday, complete with carols, a guy dressed as Santa, and a fully decorated tree. My birthday is in October. Get it? I. LOVE. CHRISTMAS. Or at least I used to, once upon a time. I’m trying to rekindle the yuletide flame.

In an effort to try to help my kids get over the notion that Christmas is all about how many presents are under the tree for them, I’m forcing them to take turns each day, as a sort of “25 Days of Christmas” activity, naming something they’re thankful for. That brings us to the purpose of this letter. What I need is to stop for a moment, for my own sanity and therapy, and think about the many, many blessings that are around me every single minute of every single day. Maybe this will help no one but me. If that’s the case, then so be it. But my hope is that it will rub off just a little. I know you’re stressed, too. I can’t possibly be the only one who is tired of Christmas flying past her every year like the obnoxious mom making a beeline for the cash register after having snatched the last Tickle-Me-Elmo off the shelf.

One of the many stressors for me this year was my silly Christmas card poem. If you’ve gotten a card from me in the past, you know I’ve been writing one every year for a while now. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but gee, I know some of you like it and look forward to it because you tell me so. But it’s one time-consuming piece of literature to compose, let me tell you! So in lieu of the annual poem, and in the spirit of the 25 days of Christmas that I’m imposing upon my own children, I’m sharing with you my list of 25 things I’m thankful for this year. They’re listed here. I have to say it was hard to limit it to 25. I have an awful lot to be happy about.

What about you? What are the blessings that are around you every day that perhaps you fail to notice this time of year because you’re so busy wrapping and ordering and cooking and hyperventilating?

I hope the season finds everyone healthy and happy and grateful for the everyday gifts. Merry Christmas!

25 Things I’m thankful for, in no particular order

1. four kids who are with me every day (no sarcasm there)

2. healthy kids

3. healthy me

4. the privilege of working with some of the finest people you'd ever want to meet

5. neighbors who shovel my driveway and put my trash out on trash day and change the high light bulbs and hang my Christmas lights and, and, and…I could go on and on.

6. new tires in winter—the ones I cried about in the fall when I had to spend waaay too much money on them

7. the world's kindest landlords. they mow my lawn, for crying out loud!

8. technology, baby! cell phones, texting, the www...I'm slightly addicted.

9. the wonder of orthodontics

10. the cutest little Charlie Brown Christmas tree we’ve ever had

11. snowball fights with my kids

12. the local supermarket's genius idea to have a guy sitting right inside the entrance playing one Christmas song after another on a crappy electronic keyboard. I love that guy! I start singing as soon as I walk in the door.

13. a marvelous 2009

14. a hair stylist who gives the perfect haircut…and is literally one minute from my house

15. a safe place to leave my little boys every day while I have to go to work even though I’d rather be home with them

16. a really comfy couch

17. a flip-of-the-switch fireplace

18. central air

19. the most incredible mountains just outside my door

20. a mom who raised me right and still doesn’t let me get away with much

21. sisters who live close by who make me laugh and who look out for me

22. three amazing brothers (ok, two are "in-laws", but not really) whom my kids adore and whom I love dearly

23. best friends who changed me by loving me in the way I needed to be loved, whether I appreciated it or not. I treasure you like no others.

24. my vast collection of Christmas socks

25. the knowledge that I have a Savior, Jesus Christ, and that because of Him, I get to keep all of the important stuff on this list forever and ever.

The burnt ones are yummy

UPDATE:  Prior to this post, where I announced that my love/hate affair with baking was over, I had promised my children that we would bake and decorate some Christmas cookies.  Today was the day for keeping that promise.  I snapped these pictures of the aftermath.  We have here a stocking, a star, a candy cane, and a Christmas tree.  At least those were their shapes going INTO the oven. 

Pray for my poor children.  Now read on...

"Dinner will be served when the smoke alarm goes off."
That was the mildly humorous phrase displayed on a refrigerator magnet given to me as a “gift” years ago by my mildly humorous parents. I think I was somewhere in my twenties at that time. You’d think twenty-something would be a bit young to have already established yourself as the Human Torch of cooking, but no. I began burning food in my early teens, I think. Then the microwave came along and made charring that much more convenient. I could scorch twice the food in a quarter of the time! Revolutionary! By the way, if you’re crunching numbers in your head trying to figure out how old I must be to actually remember the microwave coming along, stop it. Now. I mean it.

The approaching holiday season means cooking is on my mind. While I love this time of year, it always tends to make me feel a bit apprehensive. From Thanksgiving to Christmas, people expect you to cook stuff…a lot of stuff. More specifically, people expect you to BAKE a lot of stuff. Even MORE specifically, they expect your creations to be edible. This is where I typically run into problems.

My culinary shortcomings don’t stem from my inability to read and understand recipes. They don’t even stem from the fact that most days I’d rather run a full marathon—in Yuma—in August—while wearing black thermals—than prepare food. My cooking delinquency can be directly attributed to two distinct character flaws (which, by the way, are mostly not my fault): impatience and short attention span.

When done correctly—emphasis on correctly—baking involves a decent amount of measuring, which means digging around for a lot of spoons and cups and sifters and, oh yeah, spoons. By the time I’ve measured out a half a teaspoon of vanilla and a tablespoon of Ajax and sifted out 1-1/4 cups of flour and mixed the dry ingredients in one bowl and the wet ingredients in another, my dishwasher is pretty much full. Not to mention all that going back and forth to my cupboards and cabinets to find spoons and cups—it’s tiring and oh so time consuming!

Somewhere along the way, I watched a little too much Rachael Ray. She likes to “eyeball” her measurements. The first time I watched her show and heard her use that term, I knew I was on to something. Eyeballing is genius! Turns out, though, the eyeballing method is one of those things you should leave to the experts. Just ask my kids when they’re choking down yet another batch of my super duper extra crunchy chocolate chip cookies, made with lots of love and oodles of eyeballing.

Combine all my lack of patience with an inability to stay focused on the task at hand, and it’s trouble in the kitchen for sure. I am VERY easily sidetracked. Always have been. I can spend an hour preparing a casserole for dinner, place it lovingly in the oven, and as soon as the phone rings or someone needs me to drive them somewhere…poof! Casserole forgotten. An hour of preparation and it’s like it never existed. Until, that is, the smoke alarm goes off (reference opening quote) and all the children are asking why the house smells like burnt feet.

I'm even worse with cookies.  My mom always burned the last batch (sorry, mom).  I burn them all.  I'm pretty sure my kids would break into song if they never again had to hear me utter the words, "The burnt ones are kind of yummy."

You think I’m kidding, or maybe exaggerating, but I’m not. There is, after all, the time I nearly took out my kitchen…and my family…with a little grease fire. I had a craving for
tacos, so I put some grease on the stove to heat up. Nothing wrong with that, unless you suffer from a severe case of CADD (Culinary Attention Deficit Disorder) and you leave the room to start another project. The next thing I remember was being tapped on the shoulder, turning around, and seeing the sweet, frightened face of a tiny little blonde child. “Um, mommy, there’s a fire.” This was followed by panic, billowing smoke, hiding in the closet and crying (the child, not me), charred cabinets, and ultimately a nicely remodeled kitchen courtesy of our insurance company. Thanks a ton, AmFam!  Unfortunately, my insurance claim didn't include a big fat check to cover the therapy my kids would need after the fact.  Every time I'd go into the kitchen for months to follow, my little girls would ask, "Mommy, you're not going to cook, are you?" 

Sadly, I'm still not exaggerating. 

So, while I know the holidays are all about homemade goodness, I’m afraid I’m just not cut out for all this measuring and paying attention nonsense. After thirty some-odd years, it’s time to own my lack of talent and desire in this area. I’m giving up on baking. I think I’ll go tell my kids right now.

I wonder which song they'll sing.

Feeding Frenzy

Today I got the chance to flex my social muscles--the grown-up ones. Those are different than the kind you use at your kids’ birthday parties or at play dates. I got to carry on conversations about things like jobs and paychecks and ex-husbands and the weather. I even managed to garner a few laughs with my sarcastic grown-up remarks, the kind that usually draw blank stares from my kids followed by, “Mommy, my science project was due yesterday.”

I had lunch with a whole bunch of other single people, a group that was formed for the sole purpose of having lunch together every Thursday. I like the concept, though I’m not sure it can work like they say it’s supposed to. No pressure. No romantic expectations (yeah, right). No scrambling for a sitter on a Friday night; just plain old platonic, loveless lunch.

I’ve resisted joining up with one of these groups for some time now. I can’t quite put my finger on the reason for it. It might be that I expect a feeding frenzy to break out at any minute when a bunch of supposedly celibate single people are thrown into a room together. We all ultimately want the same thing: companionship. It’s a little awkward thinking about who’s got their eye on whom, and how many are scoping out the group for their next romantic conquest. It’s labeled as a “just lunch with no love connection pressure” kinda thing, but everyone there knows why everyone there is there. Yes, I really did just write that.

So today I gave in. I wanted to see what this singles lunch thing was all about. I’ll be the first to admit I’m glad I went. I can honestly say I met people that I’d like to know better. Take the cute little single mom who sat next to me. We’ll call her Natalie (because that’s her name). When my BLT salad arrived with no B, and I was too gutless to go track down somebody and make them correct this horrific situation, who do ya think had huevos (huevos, eggs, bacon…get it?) enough to go to bat for me and my pathetic little meatless bed of greens? It was none other than my new BFF, little miss Natalie, who stormed the kitchen and demanded I get my B…and pronto. Shortly thereafter, I was informed that they were sorta out of B and my meal would be F. That’s “free.”   Pretty much takes the steam out of miss Natalie's heroic gesture, but I was grateful for her efforts nonetheless.

To sum up, singles lunches are good. I might even do it again. Next time, though, to save Natalie from having to open her can of you-know-what all over the poor kitchen staff, I may just BMOB.

You win some, you win some.

I’ve decided that fun doesn’t exactly bring out the best in kids.

Gone are the days when you went to a birthday party, played a game, and got a prize *IF* you actually won the game. In the 21st century, children expect a reward simply for taking up space. Far be it from me to minimize the effort that’s required to breathe in and out, but does your mere existence really warrant an award of some sort? I don’t think so.

I allowed my nine year old daughter to have a Halloween party at our house this past week. Part of my preparation for this party was to come up with some games to keep the little goblins entertained. I made a trip to the store to stock up on some small prizes to give to the WINNERS of said games. As I was adding up in my head the number of prizes I would need, there was a little voice nagging at me. “You had better get enough prizes for all the guests. They’re going to expect that, you know.”

The mean mom in me had other ideas.

The mean mom in me thinks that we’ve turned our kids into a bunch of gooey little marshmallows, if you must know the truth. When I say “we,” I guess I’m not exactly sure to whom it is I’m referring. Perhaps it’s the fault of us parents. We understandably want our kids to be happy and comfortable and to never have to deal with disappointment or loss, in whatever form it may come. So we shelter them from those things. The problem with that, unfortunately, is that those things are the stuff of which reality is made.

Perhaps it comes down to influences outside the home. Take school, for example. When my daughter competed in the school spelling bee earlier this year (and won, thank you very much), I fully expected the principal to bring out a box of trophies—one for every single kid who had competed. She was falling all over herself trying to console the ones who were in tears for not having come out the winner. If that had been ME as a kid (and it was, more times than I care to admit), my mom would have marched me over to the corner, told me I did a good job, then whacked me across the top of the head and told me to suck it up and get over it. Now there’s some reality. Why aren’t more parents and adults teaching children how to lose? Note: I’m not suggesting that anyone run out and whack their poor-sport kids across the heads (sometimes a swift kick in the backside does the trick just as well).

Let’s get raw for a moment. Isn’t the world mainly made up of a bunch of losers? No matter what the contest, whether it’s a spelling bee or bobbing for apples or running for president, there is always just the one winner. Everyone else falls just a little short in the end. And that’s okay. I for one am quite glad that, when it comes time to pick a president, we don’t have a system (at least not currently) in place which allows everyone who “played” to get the prize just so nobody feels bad. It’s a ridiculous notion. Yet we are teaching our kids that this is how the world works. “You don’t need to work hard. There’s no need to excel. You’ll eventually end up with the same prize as that other kid who worked and studied and prepared his guts out and EARNED that blue ribbon.” Maybe we need a little less of that and a little more, “Sometimes you won’t get invited to the neighbor kid’s birthday bash. Sometimes you’ll come in dead last and barely get a pat on the back for your efforts. Sometimes you’ll work and slave and do your best and still someone else will do a little bit better. Sometimes you’ll go to a party and play games and come home with nothing but cavities and a sugar buzz from all the cake and ice cream you ate.”

So, to the parents of the sweet kids who came to my Halloween party, I apologize for the fact that everyone didn’t end up with a prize. In my defense, though, it wasn’t entirely my fault. The mean mom made me do it.

It's all fun n games 'til somebody loses a toe

My first winter away from the southwest desert taught me two things:

1. Snow boots are an essential part of any winter ensemble.

2. When in the midst of a crisis where appendage loss is looming, call the medical professionals. Friends are useless…and mean.

My kids and I are sissies. It’s not our fault. We hail from a place where a sixty degree forecast had us scrambling for the heavy coats and Duraflame® logs. Like I said, sissies. That all changed last year, though, when we packed up our t-shirts and flip-flops and moved to a genuine four seasons climate.

Our experience with snow prior to that move went something like this:

Freak snow “storm” hits the desert on a January morning. Mom piles on the coats and hats and gloves and sends kids excitedly outside to frolic. Five year old daughter makes it approximately six-and-a-half steps out the door before slipping on a slick spot and landing flat on her back.

Frolicking over. Snow sucks.

Fast forward to the first snowfall of the season in our new home. The park across the street was no longer a park. Its vast, grassy play area was transformed into a pure white winter wonderland. My little desert rats were practically salivating at the thought of all the romping and snowball throwing they could do. That blanket of white was calling their names.

I suppose my first mistake (rest assured there are more to follow) was letting everyone be in charge of dressing themselves. I gave them all a once-over before sending them on their merry ways and shutting the door behind them.

Hats: check. Gloves: check. Coats: check. And off they went.

Being the conscientious mom that I am, I would periodically peek out the window to count kids and make sure they were all still relatively unfrozen. At some point I noticed the feet of my second youngest child. He had somehow managed to get past me with no boots, just sneakers. I was concerned, but the snow was shallow and he’d been out there a good fifteen minutes already with no complaints. I was sure that, once his feet started to feel wet and cold and uncomfortable, he’d come running inside and we’d put the boots on. See? I told you there were more mistakes to follow. Another thirty minutes went by. I kept up my periodic checks, sure each time that I’d see my boy dancing around in a frost-bitten frenzy. Nope. It was obvious to me that the cold, wet snow had yet to penetrate those sneakers.

Under my breath to no one in particular: Wow, those seven dollar Walmart shoes are really giving mommy her money’s worth.

Truer words were never spoken.

I’m sure I don’t need to spell out the rest. Forty five minutes of snow play was enough for them. They were all hungry and cold enough by then to call it quits. They left their snow gear—including boots and seven dollar sneakers—at the door and got a few minutes into their snacks. What came next was the kind of horrifying cry of anguish that sends shivers down a mom’s spine. I turned around to see my boy—yeah, the one with the sneakers—writhing in pain on the floor, clutching his bright pink…no, RED feet and screaming uncontrollably.

“Mommy! My feet hurt SOOOOOO bad! Aaaaaaaaaahhhhh! Mommy, help meeeeeeee!”

I snapped into action and did what any insane, freaked-out, loving mother would do: I sat down at the computer.  Through the wonders of instant messaging, I sought the help of a seasoned “friend” (using that term loosely at the moment) who lives in one of those really bitterly cold, mountainless prairie states. Surely, I thought, he’s got experience in this area.

Freaked-out: Are you there? I need your help!

Unsupportive prairie state friend: Yes?

Freaked-out: What do I dooooo? I think my boy’s got frostbite on his toes. He’s screaming in pain! Has this ever happened to you?

Unsupportive prairie state friend: Uh, what makes you think he has frostbite?

Freaked-out: He was out in the snow for a while then he came in and started screaming and holding his feet and he says his feet hurt and DID I MENTION HE'S SCREAMING???!!!

Unsupportive prairie state friend: Did you send him out in his bare feet?

Freaked-out: Of course not! How stupid would I have to be? He had sneakers on.

Unsupportive prairie state friend: Uh.

Freaked-out: What should I do? I’m afraid his toes are going to start breaking off!!!!!

Unsupportive prairie state friend: Uh.

Freaked-out: Should I put him in a warm bath? Rub his feet? WHAT! DO! I! DOOOO????!!!!

Unsupportive prairie state friend: So, you really didn’t know that you shouldn’t send a kid out to play in the snow in his sneakers?

Freaked-out: He says it hurts so bad he can’t walk. This is terrible! What if I’ve damaged him for life?!

Unsupportive prairie state friend: You really think his toes are going to break off? That’s funny.

I’m happy to report that, thanks to the helpful suggestions of my wonderfully sympathetic friend, I was able to save all ten toes and everyone lived to tell the tale.  The lessons learned did not come easily, nor will I soon forget them.   This is mainly because I'm reminded by my loving friend on quite the regular basis that I was an idiot on that fateful day.  I can own that. 

Another winter is just around the corner.  I’m fully prepared this time. I’ve got the snow boots—and the pediatrician’s phone number—at the ready.

Abbreviation abuse is no laughing matter. LOL.

The writer in me is loving all of this digital age stuff.

Texting.

Blogging.

Instant Messaging.

Thanks to modern technology, I can conveniently and simultaneously bombard my hundreds of friends—or maybe slightly fewer than that now--with all of the random thoughts that are scurrying through my brain…at any given moment! I venture to say that I might even be addicted to these instantaneous forms of communication. Some folks drink. Others smoke. I’m high on social media.

But certain people out there are seriously killing my buzz.

Not everyone shares my deep and abiding love for a little thing I like to call “the English language.” Unlike many of my fellow raconteurs (I had to look that word up to make sure it meant what I thought it meant--it does), I’m unwilling to send out any communication that looks like the following just to shave seven or eight seconds off of my typing time:

          UR going 2 B ok. U will find the right person 4 U and U will fall in love and she will appreciate U 4 who U R.

I took the above from an actual comment left on a friend’s Facebook® page. Side note: I had to paraphrase a bit. I’d like to add that paraphrasing a bunch of random letters and numbers is not as easy as it may sound.

Is it really so taxing on the fingers--and the brain--to type out the words “you” or “are” or “to” or “be” in their entirety?

When I try to decipher some of these cryptic messages, it reminds me a lot of being in my car at a stop light and attempting to read the vanity plate of the driver in front of me. As in, the guy who tries to make a very clear-cut humorous or political statement to the world using seven or fewer letters and numbers on the back of his car. Statements like: RUD14ME, or GBL WMR or AHEADAU.

I sit and stare at it for several seconds. I can’t quite make it out. I lean forward, poking my chin over the steering wheel. I squint, too, as though that’s going to help. Still nothing. Then the light turns green and the guy speeds away and for the rest of the day I make myself nuts wondering what he was trying to tell me. How will I ever know? He’s gone!

Much of what I see on the internet these days is causing me this same kind of anxiety. I feel like I’m decoding one mysterious vanity plate after another, squinting and leaning in closer to the screen in a futile effort to make it seem a little bit like English.

As annoying as all of this abbreviating can be, nothing will make my eye twitch faster than the random and pointless use of the cancer of all internet-speak: LOL.

LOL used to mean something was funny. It used to mean that the person on the other end was experiencing a brief moment of irrepressible joy. Now it simply means, “I’m done talking…I think.” It’s become a form of punctuation; a period at the end of a boring sentence.

"I went to the store. lol"
"Those green beans were delicious. lol"
"My grandma died. lol"

 It’s the written equivalent of that uncomfortable moment at the door after a first date: Do I kiss him? Do I tell her I’ll call her? I don’t know what to say here. Wait! I’ve got it…LOL! Whew. That was almost awkward.

Let’s get real. If everyone is really laughing out loud as much as they claim to be, wouldn’t the result be a sonic boom such as the world has never heard? The other possibility is that the computers and cell phones of the earth have all been overtaken by a bunch of hyenas.

My point is, if UR going 2 abbrevE8, please make sure U do so responsibly. Do UR best 2 B courteous 2 those 2 whom U send UR txt msgs. TY. LOL.