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.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Gag Me With a Jelly Shoe
The 80’s are calling. And for reasons beyond my understanding, people are actually answering the phone.
I work on the campus of a major university. Day after day, more and more, I am seeing things that I thought…or hoped…I’d never have to see again. I can live with the way-too-big earrings. I can even live with the way-too-small jeans (on other people, that is). The wide, studded belts secured loosely around the outside of the oversized blouses are, well, nearly tolerable. But I saw something the other day that made my blood run chill. It’s almost too painful for me to type out loud.
That’s right, I saw a female student donning a pair of stirrup pants. Oh, the horror!
It’s been coming, slowly but surely. I honestly kept hoping, though, that maybe it wouldn’t really catch on. Perhaps someone would get hold of one of my high school yearbooks and see how dreadfully hideous we all were. Word would spread and this trend would be stopped cold, before anyone had a chance to even purchase a single pair of stirrup pants or jelly shoes or checkered Vans®.
Each of the decades has left its own fashion smudge on society. The 70’s brought us bell bottoms and platform shoes. I was a mere child in the 70’s, but I’m a big fan of any ensemble that creates the illusion of a smaller butt and longer legs. The 90’s were all about the grunge. Oddly enough, every girl wanted to dress like Kurt Cobain. The baggier your big, ripped flannel shirt, the better. This certainly wasn’t my favorite look, but you can’t dispute the value of such a low-maintenance style regimen. It was wash ‘n go, only better, because the “washing” step was completely eliminated. Just go. Many of us saved a lot of money on toothbrushes and shampoo in the 90’s.
But the 80’s. Oh, the 80’s. What was pretty about that decade? Nothing, I say. The bangs were big and sticky. The shirts were oversized. The pants were undersized. What’s most amusing and puzzling to me is that we spent a lot of time, energy and money just to achieve ugly. I primped and primped and primped some more with all the gel and the hairspray and the bright blue eye shadow. While that layer of lacquer was hardening, I’d spend several minutes working up a sweat trying to safety pin the sides of my pants to make them as tapered and unflattering as possible. After that, it was time for another lacquer application. All that work just to look like a "Thriller" extra.
Oh really, who am I kidding here? It comes down to this: My feelings about 80’s apparel are likely rooted somewhere in deep bitterness over the fact that there’s nothing in my size that can legally be called a “skinny jean.” In other words, if this throwback trend continues and my beloved bootcut pant becomes obsolete, I’ll be in a world of hurt. It’s muumuus and denim jumpers from here on out.
I’m not happy about that prospect, not one bit. The 80's may be calling, but the 90's brought us Caller ID. I'm using mine.
(COMMENTS WELCOME AND APPRECIATED)
I work on the campus of a major university. Day after day, more and more, I am seeing things that I thought…or hoped…I’d never have to see again. I can live with the way-too-big earrings. I can even live with the way-too-small jeans (on other people, that is). The wide, studded belts secured loosely around the outside of the oversized blouses are, well, nearly tolerable. But I saw something the other day that made my blood run chill. It’s almost too painful for me to type out loud.
That’s right, I saw a female student donning a pair of stirrup pants. Oh, the horror!
It’s been coming, slowly but surely. I honestly kept hoping, though, that maybe it wouldn’t really catch on. Perhaps someone would get hold of one of my high school yearbooks and see how dreadfully hideous we all were. Word would spread and this trend would be stopped cold, before anyone had a chance to even purchase a single pair of stirrup pants or jelly shoes or checkered Vans®.
Each of the decades has left its own fashion smudge on society. The 70’s brought us bell bottoms and platform shoes. I was a mere child in the 70’s, but I’m a big fan of any ensemble that creates the illusion of a smaller butt and longer legs. The 90’s were all about the grunge. Oddly enough, every girl wanted to dress like Kurt Cobain. The baggier your big, ripped flannel shirt, the better. This certainly wasn’t my favorite look, but you can’t dispute the value of such a low-maintenance style regimen. It was wash ‘n go, only better, because the “washing” step was completely eliminated. Just go. Many of us saved a lot of money on toothbrushes and shampoo in the 90’s.
But the 80’s. Oh, the 80’s. What was pretty about that decade? Nothing, I say. The bangs were big and sticky. The shirts were oversized. The pants were undersized. What’s most amusing and puzzling to me is that we spent a lot of time, energy and money just to achieve ugly. I primped and primped and primped some more with all the gel and the hairspray and the bright blue eye shadow. While that layer of lacquer was hardening, I’d spend several minutes working up a sweat trying to safety pin the sides of my pants to make them as tapered and unflattering as possible. After that, it was time for another lacquer application. All that work just to look like a "Thriller" extra.
Oh really, who am I kidding here? It comes down to this: My feelings about 80’s apparel are likely rooted somewhere in deep bitterness over the fact that there’s nothing in my size that can legally be called a “skinny jean.” In other words, if this throwback trend continues and my beloved bootcut pant becomes obsolete, I’ll be in a world of hurt. It’s muumuus and denim jumpers from here on out.
I’m not happy about that prospect, not one bit. The 80's may be calling, but the 90's brought us Caller ID. I'm using mine.
(COMMENTS WELCOME AND APPRECIATED)
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
If You're Happy and You Know It, Tease Your Hair
Being a relatively recent transplant to the state of Utah, I have to admit I am fascinated by so much of the culture here, particularly in Utah County, a.k.a. Utah Valley, a.k.a. Happy Valley. Incidentally, it took me about six months of living here before I even figured out that those three locations were one and the same.
Besides the religious influence, the food storage fanaticism, and the unusually high volume of anti-depressant consumption (I am not making that up--they don't call it Happy Valley for nothin'), there is one aspect of the culture in particular which greatly fascinates—no—puzzles me.
It’s the hair.
Can someone please tell me what is going on in Utah Coun….er…Utah Val…er…HAPPY VALLEY with all the hair teasing? Am I the only one who is alarmed by this epidemic? Everywhere I go—work, church, the mall, the grocery store—I see tiny, otherwise attractive women with hair taller and wider than the Wasatch Mountain range. Many unsettling thoughts run through my flat-haired head when I happen upon these 1960’s throwbacks. I wonder if any of these women have mirrors in their homes. I wonder if they have hefty chiropractor bills from all the top-heaviness. I wonder if it hurts when they bump into walls or get stuck in doorways. I wonder if their friends and husbands are too kind or just too afraid to ask them, “Are you really going out in public like that?” I wonder if they all have to drive convertibles or at least cars with sun roofs. I wonder if they have to stand so many feet away from the grill flames when they attend neighborhood barbecues, or if the neighbors are simply kind enough to make sure the fire department is on standby.
I always thought that the whole idea behind teasing and putting product in the hair was to create an “illusion” of body and volume. I guess I missed the issue of Cosmo that said sleek was out and coon cap was in. I really need to do better at keeping up with these beauty and fashion trends. When I think of the hours I’ve apparently wasted in the bathroom trying to achieve that combed, nest-free look, I feel positively embarrassed at my hairstyling ignorance.
Now don’t get me wrong. I mean to take nothing away from the women of Happy Valley. I’d venture to say that Utah County is home to some of the best-looking women on earth. As a whole, they are kind, intelligent, cheerful (see previous happy pills reference), service-minded, God-fearing, and family-loving. Truth be told, I had never seen so much perfect skin or so many perky backsides in my life until I relocated to this place. Not that I typically notice those things. Oh, nevermind.
So I just can’t figure out how it happened. Perhaps no one ever explained to some of them that “mop” is a figurative reference to hair, and not actually something to shoot for.
However it happened, however the line between beauty and birds’ nest was blurred, I refuse to give in to the pressure. I don’t care if everyone in Happy Valley is doing it. They’ll have to pry my flat-iron—and my happy pills—from my cold, dead hands.
Besides the religious influence, the food storage fanaticism, and the unusually high volume of anti-depressant consumption (I am not making that up--they don't call it Happy Valley for nothin'), there is one aspect of the culture in particular which greatly fascinates—no—puzzles me.
It’s the hair.
Can someone please tell me what is going on in Utah Coun….er…Utah Val…er…HAPPY VALLEY with all the hair teasing? Am I the only one who is alarmed by this epidemic? Everywhere I go—work, church, the mall, the grocery store—I see tiny, otherwise attractive women with hair taller and wider than the Wasatch Mountain range. Many unsettling thoughts run through my flat-haired head when I happen upon these 1960’s throwbacks. I wonder if any of these women have mirrors in their homes. I wonder if they have hefty chiropractor bills from all the top-heaviness. I wonder if it hurts when they bump into walls or get stuck in doorways. I wonder if their friends and husbands are too kind or just too afraid to ask them, “Are you really going out in public like that?” I wonder if they all have to drive convertibles or at least cars with sun roofs. I wonder if they have to stand so many feet away from the grill flames when they attend neighborhood barbecues, or if the neighbors are simply kind enough to make sure the fire department is on standby.
I always thought that the whole idea behind teasing and putting product in the hair was to create an “illusion” of body and volume. I guess I missed the issue of Cosmo that said sleek was out and coon cap was in. I really need to do better at keeping up with these beauty and fashion trends. When I think of the hours I’ve apparently wasted in the bathroom trying to achieve that combed, nest-free look, I feel positively embarrassed at my hairstyling ignorance.
Now don’t get me wrong. I mean to take nothing away from the women of Happy Valley. I’d venture to say that Utah County is home to some of the best-looking women on earth. As a whole, they are kind, intelligent, cheerful (see previous happy pills reference), service-minded, God-fearing, and family-loving. Truth be told, I had never seen so much perfect skin or so many perky backsides in my life until I relocated to this place. Not that I typically notice those things. Oh, nevermind.
So I just can’t figure out how it happened. Perhaps no one ever explained to some of them that “mop” is a figurative reference to hair, and not actually something to shoot for.
However it happened, however the line between beauty and birds’ nest was blurred, I refuse to give in to the pressure. I don’t care if everyone in Happy Valley is doing it. They’ll have to pry my flat-iron—and my happy pills—from my cold, dead hands.
(COMMENTS WELCOME AND APPRECIATED)
Sunday, August 9, 2009
All that glitters is...pure eeevil!
I have a house full of children who are all, apparently, in the "creative" phases of life. They love to generate stuff, and lots of it. If it involves markers, crayons, paintbrushes, beads, fabric, or wood, my children (minus Lucas) are all over it like the mustard to the ham. Oh, and glue, too. Let's not forget the glue.
I'm not gonna lie. I won't be winning any mother-of-the-year awards any time soon. I don't love craft projects so much. When my oldest daughter screeched the words, "Mommy! I found the craft box in the garage!" the other day, I felt the acid churning in my stomach. I thought I had stacked an adequate number of empty boxes on top of it when we moved in 10 months ago. Guess not. Drat.
Our beloved, dreaded craft box contains all of the above mentioned items and then some, plus a bonus: GLITTER. I was going to use an exclamation point there, but that would indicate some excitement or enthusiasm on my part. I don't like glitter. To quote a flair button on a friend's Facebook page, "Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies." I don't feel the need to elaborate on that. It stands on its own.
In a world where I have approximately four to five hours every night at home to cook, do laundry, pick up toys, clean up messes, post to my blog (uh huh, that's a have-to), exercise, do dishes, give baths, help with homework, run errands, cuddle my kids, change diapers, and perform countless other not-so-trivial tasks, the sight of glitter tubes and paint containers emerging from the craft box is enough to send me straight to my room with an Ambien-laced cup of chamomile.
But...
I reeeeeally want that mother-of-the-year award. This is my year. I can feel it.
So I fake the glitter love, for their sakes. I watch them work their sparkly magic, my countertops and floors acting as the unwilling canvas for their masterpieces. Some of it even ends up on the hundreds of sheets of plain white paper that they kipe from my printer.
Ever tried to extract glitter from linoleum? Or a five-year-old's scalp? Don't bother.
I'm not gonna lie. I won't be winning any mother-of-the-year awards any time soon. I don't love craft projects so much. When my oldest daughter screeched the words, "Mommy! I found the craft box in the garage!" the other day, I felt the acid churning in my stomach. I thought I had stacked an adequate number of empty boxes on top of it when we moved in 10 months ago. Guess not. Drat.
Our beloved, dreaded craft box contains all of the above mentioned items and then some, plus a bonus: GLITTER. I was going to use an exclamation point there, but that would indicate some excitement or enthusiasm on my part. I don't like glitter. To quote a flair button on a friend's Facebook page, "Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies." I don't feel the need to elaborate on that. It stands on its own.
In a world where I have approximately four to five hours every night at home to cook, do laundry, pick up toys, clean up messes, post to my blog (uh huh, that's a have-to), exercise, do dishes, give baths, help with homework, run errands, cuddle my kids, change diapers, and perform countless other not-so-trivial tasks, the sight of glitter tubes and paint containers emerging from the craft box is enough to send me straight to my room with an Ambien-laced cup of chamomile.
But...
I reeeeeally want that mother-of-the-year award. This is my year. I can feel it.
So I fake the glitter love, for their sakes. I watch them work their sparkly magic, my countertops and floors acting as the unwilling canvas for their masterpieces. Some of it even ends up on the hundreds of sheets of plain white paper that they kipe from my printer.
Ever tried to extract glitter from linoleum? Or a five-year-old's scalp? Don't bother.
(COMMENTS WELCOME AND APPRECIATED)
Wireless Woes
I wasn't given a writing assignment, per se, this time around. I just felt inspired by a recent real-life incident that annoyed the snot out of me. So here goes. Feedback welcome, as always.
Wireless Woes
I went to the car wash yesterday. I wasn’t hurting anyone. I was minding my own business. I only wanted my minivan cleaned, nothing more. I sat patiently while the work was done, sipping my diet soda and thumbing happily through the pages of a waiting area magazine, when “she” walked in.
You know who “she” is. You’ve been accosted by her at some point, either in the grocery store aisle, the line at the bank, or maybe even in the hushed lobby of a doctor’s office. She’s the one yammering into the air and making eye contact with, well, no one. You wonder to which of the forty people in the room she might be speaking. Nobody seems to be engaging her. You even wonder if she is talking to you. Then you see it, the tiny bud in her ear and the itty bitty hot pink phone in her hand. She’s chatting away with someone possibly hundreds of miles away. Not only is she not addressing anyone in the vicinity, she is tactlessly unaware that you or any of those other unfortunate people are even in the room. Nor does she care, for that matter. It gets better. When she was born, doctors discovered that she was missing a vital body part. That’s right; she was born without an indoor voice box. She’s loud. She’s boorish. And she “needed” to make a phone call. Right then. It couldn’t wait. The guy on the other end needed to know immediately that she wasn’t really up to much of anything.
I want more laws for people like her. Here in Utah, we already have cell phone laws in place, like the one that prohibits texting while driving. We all know this is a matter of public safety. Likewise, men and women with certain medical conditions-like the absence of an indoor voice box-should have their phone usage closely governed. This, too, is a matter of public safety. Yesterday, for example, as I sat with the other increasingly irked patrons in that small waiting area listening to one side-the LOUD side-of a totally unnecessary conversation, it was all I could do to keep from calmly walking over to her and making that bud a permanent part of her ear canal. My new law idea could prevent such an incident. Purchasing a cell phone shouldn’t be any easier than buying a gun these days, especially if you’re going to use your phone as a weapon for crimes against humanity. I want medical records queried and background checks performed before any store clerk carelessly hands over one more cell phone to a member of the general public.
Where did the manufacturers come up with the Bluetooth® moniker, anyway? Wouldn’t “BlackEye” or “PurpleShins” be a more fitting name for this device, since that is what many of us wish to administer to its users when we encounter them in public places? And speaking of manufacturers, they could do us all a favor by turning back the technological clock a few years. I recall the infancy stages of the cell phone, when they were all hand-held and the size and weight of a cinder block. I say we revisit the good old days of cumbersome phone designs and make it highly inconvenient for this woman and her minions to annoy us in our car washes.
Would it have been too much to ask of her to simply take her conversation-and her outdoor voice-outside? Of course, when I say “outside,” I mean Wyoming…or Canada.
I probably sound bitter…and intolerant…and slightly disposed to violence. Perhaps. But this isn’t about me. I’m not the bad guy here. I just wanted my car washed. After all, texting and driving in a filthy car can be extremely distracting. Safety first. That’s my motto.
Wireless Woes
I went to the car wash yesterday. I wasn’t hurting anyone. I was minding my own business. I only wanted my minivan cleaned, nothing more. I sat patiently while the work was done, sipping my diet soda and thumbing happily through the pages of a waiting area magazine, when “she” walked in.
You know who “she” is. You’ve been accosted by her at some point, either in the grocery store aisle, the line at the bank, or maybe even in the hushed lobby of a doctor’s office. She’s the one yammering into the air and making eye contact with, well, no one. You wonder to which of the forty people in the room she might be speaking. Nobody seems to be engaging her. You even wonder if she is talking to you. Then you see it, the tiny bud in her ear and the itty bitty hot pink phone in her hand. She’s chatting away with someone possibly hundreds of miles away. Not only is she not addressing anyone in the vicinity, she is tactlessly unaware that you or any of those other unfortunate people are even in the room. Nor does she care, for that matter. It gets better. When she was born, doctors discovered that she was missing a vital body part. That’s right; she was born without an indoor voice box. She’s loud. She’s boorish. And she “needed” to make a phone call. Right then. It couldn’t wait. The guy on the other end needed to know immediately that she wasn’t really up to much of anything.
I want more laws for people like her. Here in Utah, we already have cell phone laws in place, like the one that prohibits texting while driving. We all know this is a matter of public safety. Likewise, men and women with certain medical conditions-like the absence of an indoor voice box-should have their phone usage closely governed. This, too, is a matter of public safety. Yesterday, for example, as I sat with the other increasingly irked patrons in that small waiting area listening to one side-the LOUD side-of a totally unnecessary conversation, it was all I could do to keep from calmly walking over to her and making that bud a permanent part of her ear canal. My new law idea could prevent such an incident. Purchasing a cell phone shouldn’t be any easier than buying a gun these days, especially if you’re going to use your phone as a weapon for crimes against humanity. I want medical records queried and background checks performed before any store clerk carelessly hands over one more cell phone to a member of the general public.
Where did the manufacturers come up with the Bluetooth® moniker, anyway? Wouldn’t “BlackEye” or “PurpleShins” be a more fitting name for this device, since that is what many of us wish to administer to its users when we encounter them in public places? And speaking of manufacturers, they could do us all a favor by turning back the technological clock a few years. I recall the infancy stages of the cell phone, when they were all hand-held and the size and weight of a cinder block. I say we revisit the good old days of cumbersome phone designs and make it highly inconvenient for this woman and her minions to annoy us in our car washes.
Would it have been too much to ask of her to simply take her conversation-and her outdoor voice-outside? Of course, when I say “outside,” I mean Wyoming…or Canada.
I probably sound bitter…and intolerant…and slightly disposed to violence. Perhaps. But this isn’t about me. I’m not the bad guy here. I just wanted my car washed. After all, texting and driving in a filthy car can be extremely distracting. Safety first. That’s my motto.
Stairway to Heaven
This is actually a post from my personal blog, but it's one of my faves, so I'm including the link here. Why a link instead of copying/pasting here? It's too annoying to try and include the pics, and the pics are very important! Anyway, click here if you're in the mood for self deprecating humor.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
