Facebook — It’s Addictive
June 12, 2009
I have revised my opinion about Facebook. My initial impression was that it was a complete waste of time and about as delightful as eating brussel sprouts. But I have since discovered that some of my friends do have more interesting things happen to them than, “Nicole is brushing her teeth.”
I discovered that those friends who only leave comments behind about brushing their teeth and backing out of their driveways can be conveniently blocked from appearing on my home page. By thus editing out the nonessential material, I make it easier to tune in to the soap opera lives of my remaining friends. This can be most entertaining.
Sometimes it is downright embarrassing, though, as I involuntarily become witness to family spats carried on for all the world to see. I do wish those who quarrel would do it through their private mailboxes, but I guess the idea is, if you’re mad, defacing the offender’s wall with snide remarks is more fun. Perhaps by defacing cyber walls, people restrain themselves from taking a can of spray paint to the offender’s real-life siding.
But on to happier thoughts – the entertaining side of Facebook. I learn the most interesting things there, that no one would otherwise bother to tell me. I am now aware that my son-in-law carries six-foot-long black snakes around the church parking lot on the end of a stick when he has nothing better to do with his time. And, that my daughter was tempted to save the state of Pennsylvania years of penal institution costs by personally administering a lethal injection to a defendant there. She figured he deserved it, and besides, she didn’t want to have to sit on the jury listening to the rest of the gross details of what he had done to deserve life in prison (or lethal injection). I learned that several people I thought were gentle souls harbor secret desires to murder bunnies in their backyard — all for the sake of saving a few petunias. (This, however, is probably not as serious as desiring to give the arrested personage a lethal injection.) I now know the intimate details of certain people’s surgeries, and can only hope they will not upload photos to further enlighten us all on their “procedures.”
I have discovered which of my friends sit down to Facebook at 6:00 a.m. and do not unglue from it until 11:00 p.m. I also know from the nonstop quizzes they take about themselves
1.) Which of Jesus’ disciples they are like (so far, no Judases)
2.) Which celebrities they look like (so far, no Phyllis Dillers or Jimmy Durantes)
3.) Which cartoon character best fits their personalities (”You are Piglet — a faithful friend to the Pooh Bears in your life, but your voice is rather squeaky, and you have cotton batting where your brains belong. However, cheer up! Your congeniality makes up for your intelligence deficiencies, so everyone loves you just the way you are.”)
I know who joined the “Save the Brazilian three-footed pygmy toad from extinction” group, who sprinkles Skittles on her oatmeal, who consults her horoscope and ought to know better, and who slathers ketchup on his shredded wheat.
It’s a strange world. Thank you, Facebook, for widening my horizons.
The Cure for Swine Flu
June 1, 2009
I know, I know. Nobody is freaking out about swine flu anymore. But, the experts are direly predicting a comeback of this hysteria-producing disease, come autumn. Consequently, just in case they are right, we should all protect ourselves with a little common-sense preparation.
I’m not sure if everyone knows this, but the surefire antidote to swine flu is bratwurst. Yes, bratwurst – not the turkey or the beef kind, mind you. It’s gotta be the pork variety. It’s a very simple concept: fight swine with swine.
Before you roll your eyeballs right out of their sockets, think about it. What did they do to stop the polio epidemic? They injected everybody with a weakened polio virus. How did they devastate measles, mumps, and chickenpox? Same story.
I’m not suggesting that we inject bratwurst into anyone’s veins. Swine flu is a most virulent disease, and a weakened dose of pork will not do the job. The bratwurst must be applied full strength via the digestive system, in large doses. Besides, immunologists are just beginning to realize that the more fun a vaccine is to take, the more effective it is. Modern science is wonderful, isn’t it?
This is why in Wisconsin, where we are progressive and savvy about most things, every man, woman, and child will be porking up on bratwurst all summer long. Cumulative dosage is key to jump-starting the immune system. Here in the Badger State, we are anticipating eating an average of 39.35 pounds of brats per capita between now and Labor Day.
You may ask, “Why, if bratwurst is such a wonderful cure, was Wisconsin the #2 state in the nation for swine flu cases in the spring of 2009?” Obviously, if you have to ask such a question you do not understand the culture and climate. The swine flu hit before it was warm enough to grill brats outside, and we were caught off-guard. Besides, you didn’t hear of anybody in Wisconsin being seriously harmed by swine flu, did you? This is because, as soon as the cases started appearing in hordes at our hospitals, the medical personnel knew exactly what to do. They starting stuffing Nesco roaster-loads of brats down the patients’ gullets. They power-dosed the victims by force-feeding them quarts of sauerkraut (loaded with vitamin C for immune system boost). It worked, and they all went home feeling euphoric about the whole recovery experience. Nary a complaint was heard about the deplorable state of hospital cuisine.
As everyone knows, not all drug brands are alike. Sometimes those generic versions do not work as well. This is why it is important for Americans to understand that not all brats will work equally as effectively in protecting against swine flu. Johnsonville Brats are still at the top of the heap, and their priceyness is well worth it, if you want to stay healthy. Klements are a somewhat distant second in efficacy, while the low-income or exceptionally frugal-of-heart individuals will have to muddle along the best they can with the greatly inferior store brands.
A tragic epidemic among people of lower income could be averted if President Obama would merely issue an executive order allowing the federal government to seize ownership of the Johnsonville Sausage Company. He could then declare free brats for everyone to make sure all was fair and square. As a by-product, many jobs would be created, as the company would have to go through enormous expansion to meet the demands for all that free food. The new jobs would mean more income for the IRS to abscond with, thereby creating a bottomless barrel for pork projects dear to the hearts of politicians. More pork in the barrel would mean more swine flu antidote, and the cycle would spiral ever upward into an increasingly healthy economy.
So there you have it, folks. Bratwurst – the answer to all the nation’s problems, from swine flu to the economy. You heard it here first, and I don’t mind at all if you share it with Wall Street and the American Medical Association.
Just Chattin’
May 16, 2009
It has been a long time since I posted, and I thought it might be a good idea to check in, just so friends know I haven’t died or something. Writers aren’t supposed to ramble. We’re supposed to make every word count. I love to ramble, so today I’m going to do it whether anybody else likes it or not.
You might say I have dual personalities — not as in multiple personality disorder, and I am not making fun of people with that tragic problem, so don’t even go there. But I do have a very serious side, which peacefully coexists with my thoroughly wacky side — my extremely innocent version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. In real life, most people never guess I have a funny bone until they’ve known me for years, and if I occasionally get a little mischievous and let some of the wacky leak out, their eyes get wide and they run away screaming.
I love humor essaying just for the sheer joy of a laugh, but serious writing on Christian themes provides the bread and butter, so that’s where the majority of my writing time is spent. Income is really only a part of it, though. It’s almost a case of, “You mean, I get to write stuff that helps people, and I actually get paid as a by-product?” I have a passion for communicating the how-to’s of growing in relationship with God.
Sometimes humor leaks into my serious writing, and then I get myself in trouble with religious folks who no doubt chew aspirin tablets for a good time. That type takes issue with everybody just for the sake of feeling good about being eternally mad at the whole world, so I don’t worry about them — much.
That said, I do so hope to get back to humor writing in the near future. My friend Ornesta has been bugging me about it for a while. She is threatening to hack this blog and do the writing herself if I don’t get busy. Ornesta, you are even scarier than I am.
Weird Search Terms #4
March 8, 2009
When you are over fifty, health issues are a leetle higher up in your conscious level than they were when you were twenty. Apparently, a lot of people are looking for info on how to fix this or that body part as painlessly as possible, and they frequently end up at this blog. I can definitely help you forget your owies temporarily by providing a good laugh, but if you REALLY want to know what to do about your clogged arteries or your gall bladder full of rocks, please see your doctor or at least visit drkoop.com. I only practice medicine on my husband and kids, since the highest diploma I own only comes from a two-year technical college.
A lot of people are extremely concerned about bumps growing on their noses or feet. But how about this one? “Pretty people with bumps on their nose.” — Most people with bumps on their noses are realists. They understand only too well that there is nothing pretty about their growths. They either
a.) choose to find their self-esteem in something other than their appearance, or
b.) run to the nearest dermatologist to rectify the unsightly flaw.
But here we have a person who wants to completely lose touch with reality by convincing him- or herself that nose bumps are distinguishing beauty marks. I suspect the searcher got to my blog post because it was the only suggestion Google could come up with for such a bizarre search. All semi-normal people understand that pretty people are pretty because they do NOT have nose bumps. The celebs who develop nose bumps do not sport them for People or Vogue magazines; they have them taken care of by the same plastic surgeon who does their face lifts, liposuctions, and rib removals.
No, there is no way to convince yourself, try as you might, that a brussel sprout-size growth on the end of your nose makes you more attractive — unless, of course, you are Michael Jackson. Michael can convince himself of all sorts of bizarre notions about the end of his nose.
“Milwaukee Mafia families” – What? I write one little blog about a quirky funeral director, and they think I’m an expert on the Mafia? I was just glad said Mafia didn’t come looking for me, after I wrote that one! This search term raised a couple of questions in my mind:
Why does someone want to go searching for the Mafia? Is he looking for employment? I know times are tough, but still ….
Is he looking for his long-lost Aunt Ticily from Sicily? Sometimes people carry this genealogy hobby a tad too far! It’s nice to know whether your relatives were feudal barons or the serfs that tilled the soil, but delving too deeply into The Family sometimes nets more than one bargained for.
“Can you eat toster studal on the Daniel Fast?” – I believe the searcher wants to eat toaster strudel. For the uninitiated, the Old Testament prophet Daniel ate “no pleasant bread” for three weeks while seeking the Lord in prayer, and now 1,289 web sites and twenty-four best-selling Christian authors are trying to make a mint by turning Daniel’s fast into the latest diet fad. Such is life with the Internet these days.
For the “toster studal” inquirer, here’s the answer: It says “no pleasant bread.” If you find toaster strudel pleasant, don’t eat it. If you absolutely loathe toaster strudel, eat a ton of the things.
My most popular blog post ever, by the way, was on the Daniel Fast. Read the original here.
Generation Canyon
February 25, 2009
Beebee has old parents, and it is hard on her psyche. Our daughter is the only teenager in her acquaintance whose father retired about the time she hit high school — and it wasn’t because Dad had made his millions, either.
When other people our age were peering over the lip of their empty nest, we discovered, to our great joy, that we were about to be Mama and Daddy again. I was an old mom masquerading as a young grandma. The obstetrician had a geriatric specialist standing by at the delivery.
Beebee frequently pleads, “Please don’t ever get old, Mom.”
I know what she means. She has witnessed her grandparents become window peekers, people who entertain themselves by watching their neighbors through the curtains, much like younger folks watch TV. I can’t even glance out the window momentarily without creating anxiety in her young mind.
She keeps a sharp eye out for telltale old-people symptoms, hoping that with early intervention she can slow down the slide. “Mom, Dad isn’t going to make any wood lawn ornaments, is he? He is revving up the scroll saw.”
“Nope, he’s too busy doing the real woodworking — remodeling the kitchen. And besides, I’m not into lawn ornaments, which is why I sold his pink flamingos to some other elderly couple at the rummage sale last year.”
“Yesterday, when we were at McDonalds, he was carrying on about hamburgers being six for a dollar when he was my age. I nearly gagged on my French fries.”
“It’s a clever old-people ploy, my dear. Slather enough guilt on the children and it chokes the expensive appetite right out of them!”
“Promise you won’t ever get old?”
“Promise. When I’m eighty-five, I will think just as young as I do now.” (This will have to satisfy her. It’s the best I can do. She already views my mid-fifties perspective as beyond ancient.)
“But … you tell stories … over and over … just like Grandpa did.” (My father had favorite anecdotes, all from his World War II days. They were funny, but only the first twenty times or so. I seem to be following in his footsteps. It must be in the genes.)
“I have never told the same story more than twice,” I indignantly reply. “By time number two, you are all rolling your eyes and covering your ears. I WANT to tell my stories more often than that, and you ought to let me! Kids, these days! No respect!”
Beebee goes on, in this heart-to-heart chat about the child-as-caretaker problem she imagines she has. “The worst of it, Mom, is your friends.”
Again, I know exactly what she means. My acquaintances scare me, too. Women within a ten year radius of me all want to discuss their health issues, and Beebee has sometimes listened in with horrified amazement. Fifteen-year-olds should not have to know the ins-and-outs of premenopausal to postmenopausal woes, hemorrhoids, gall bladder attacks, and plumbing surgeries gone awry. For that matter, I don’t want to know, either, but I have to be polite.
I like to tease the child sometimes, just to see what she’ll say. “Beebee, when you were born, you were the answer to all of Mom and Dad’s dreams. We were always afraid that your sister would move away, and she did. But now we have you to take care of us through our twilight years, our very own in-home health care professional. Think of it — you don’t have to obsess like other kids do about who you will marry or what you should do for a career. All your material and emotional needs will be met for decades to come by your wonderful parents — and I plan on being around for at least another forty years.”
Beebee calculates quickly and realizes in forty years she will be a tad older than I am. She stalks off with a good-natured “Humpff! Mom, you’re even scarier than I thought.”
Anybody Not Joined Facebook Yet?
January 27, 2009
I have finally broken down and done what the whole rest of the world had accomplished before me: I have joined Facebook.
My married daughter assured me that it was a must-do. Only people who live in caves and draw bison on the walls are not on Facebook. In fact, Facebook has provided an outlet for people who prefer to stay in caves and draw on walls – or people whose mothers never succeeded in teaching them not to do murals there. They actually encourage folks to scribble on other people’s walls. The polite thing to do is not get mad, but get even. When someone writes on your wall, you just go write on his. It is hard for me to get used to. My mother taught me well. One episode of Mom skillfully applying a stirring spoon to my behind taught me that crayon masterpieces do not belong on walls. But times have changed.
I have noticed that Facebook people are not very literary. They don’t write or read blog posts. If you want to know what’s happening in your friends’ lives you have to look at the latest 1,000 pictures they have uploaded and try to guess from those what is happening in their lives. I think it is the modern version of charades. I have come to a conclusion: everyone but me spends 70% of their time taking pictures of themselves. How many pictures of the same face can we all endure every forty-eight hours? But then, that is why we call it Facebook, isn’t it. The other 30% of a Facebooker’s day is spent equally divided between
1.) Commenting on everyone else’s pictures,
2.) Joining this and that fan club or group and trying to get everyone else to do likewise, and
3.) Letting the world know what one is doing moment-by-moment throughout the day.
It is Point #3 which I would like to discuss next. Hardly any of my Facebook friends do interesting things throughout their day. “Sheba is tired and going to bed.” “Rodney is eating toast.” “Dobey is backing his car out of the driveway.” It is enough to make me post, “Lee Ann is dying of ennui, due to the boring lives of her Facebook friends.” However, my life is far more interesting than that, so I will break out of the mold and shock Facebook by letting all my cyber friends into my hitherto private world of adventure. Allow me to give you a preview.
Lee Ann is:
… butchering the hogs right now. Y’all come on over for headcheese.
… bandaging her toes after dropping a world-record-size eggplant on them.
… reading The Adventures of Richard Hannay for the tenth time. Who knew WWI could be so much fun?
… stowing away on a steamer for Antarctica.
… heading up the George Barna research team on how many preterists also belong to the Flat Earth Society.
… out of wind from chasing her pet turtle down the street. Either they move faster than they are given credit for, or Lee Ann needs a date with a treadmill.
… crock pot cooking the penguins she secured in Antarctica. (And the eggs make good omelets.)
… scraping half-cooked Skookie dough off the front of her (once) immaculate white bathrobe.
… wondering why there is an ambulance outside and two men with a stretcher and a straitjacket coming to her front door. (What has the retired mailman done this time?)
You get the idea.
Merry Christmas and a Happy Newsletter
December 24, 2008
Dear friends,
We wish you a very merry Christmas! I hope everything is going well with you and all your family.
We’re all ducky and ecstatically happy with each other at our house, as usual.
Having Paul home, now that he’s retired, has taken a bit of getting used to, but I am thoroughly spoiled. I love having him around the house. He keeps pretty busy with household projects, and he likes to go downtown and share Jesus with people on the street at least once a week when the weather isn’t frightful.
He is done with one year of Bible school, and has one year to go yet. After that he plans on being a televangelist. He really likes class a lot. Our pastor is a fine teacher, so Paul gets into it. He is a bit of a godzilla to live with in the week leading up to exams, though. He frets that he will not do well on the tests – but he always does.
Paul is a good sport about me picking on him in the silly blog posts I write. If one gets too outrageous, I always let him read it before I put it up for the world to see, just to make sure it isn’t something he objects to. He has never refused to give his stamp of approval. I think he likes the persona I have created for him. Perhaps he enjoys having a fuss made over himself.
Beebee is a sophomore in high school now. She is learning to play guitar from one of my friends, and she sings on the worship team at our church. We will home school her until she is forty or marries and has ten children, whichever comes first.
We are thinking of going to Pittsburgh the day after Christmas to spend a week with Susan and her husband Chris – if the forecast is clear. It’s a long drive for such stay-at-homes as us – about twelve hours – and we’d rather not hit a blizzard in Indiana. (Encountering the highway patrol there isn’t such a super experience, either.) So, if it even hints of snow, I’ll plant my feet firmly in the home snow banks and refuse to budge.
Susan’s little boy Ezekiel is almost five and Rachel is two. The parsonage that they live in is very large, so we have enough room to spread out and have space to ourselves if we all get too much for each other. After several days together, we always get to be too much for each other!
They have a woods and a creek behind the house instead of a backyard. It’s nice for a walk at this time of year, since the poisonous snakes and disease-carrying ticks are all asleep right now. There is a beaver dam on the creek, and they have seen a beaver. Chris said it is just a woodchuck, but they probably don’t know a beaver from a woodchuck in Arkansas, where he comes from. Beebee saw it and said it had a big old flat tail – beaver, not woodchuck. Other than the woods, they don’t have a lot to do there. Perhaps I will bring popsicle sticks and Elmer’s glue along and entertain myself making a fruit bowl out of them with Ezekiel, so that I feel like a proper grandma. I don’t have the grandma stereotype down yet, somehow.
(Oops! This just in: Weather.com says forget about Pittsburgh.)
A few days ago, Ezekiel told Susan that he wanted to “fire” the house. I would have freaked out, but she manages to stay calm under such astonishing announcements. She asked him why he wanted to burn the house down. He said he wanted to get rid of the clocks. When she probed further, he said they don’t say it’s lunch time often enough. I hope she finds a constructive avenue to steer his inquisitive mind into, so that he invents useful things to keep himself occupied as he gets older. A chemistry set would probably never be a good idea.
I hope you have a lovely Christmas, and that the new year is full of good things for you!
Fix Your Gallbladder!
December 23, 2008
Someone just left a comment that he or she had read the definitive book on liver flushes. It was in response to my post on Mountain Dew Gallbladders. I can’t imagine why anyone would flush his liver, much less read about doing so! But it got me thinking about the time I took a friend’s advice to cleanse my gallbladder. Maybe she had been reading the same book. She’s fortunate I didn’t flush the friendship.
I had been having some pain that ominously hinted of gallbladder trouble. My devoted buddy told me about a “treatment” to get rid of and/or prevent gallstones. She swore she did it annually. I think she lied!
Her cure involved drinking a mixture of 1/2 cup olive oil and 1/2 cup lemon juice. Pour it down the hatch, and in the morning you feel wonderful. I decided to be conservative and drink half the prescribed amount. It took some doing to get that far. This concoction does not taste like Gatorade or Starbucks special blend.
I just about upchucked on the spot. “Mind over matter,” I told myself, while attempting to force my stomach to retain its goods. Believe me, there was a titanic battle between my mind and the matter for the next hour or two.
Shortly after I retired for the evening, stabbing abdominal pains set in. I thought I was going to die, or at the very least be forced to visit the emergency room and ‘fess up to what I’d done. I had visions of the ER folks employing gastrointestinal roto-rooters to save my life and the insurance company refusing to pay for my rescue from self-mutilation.
Eventually the pain stopped, I fell asleep, and was relieved to wake up the next morning in the same realm I had dozed off in. I want to see heaven — just not quite yet.
My friend received a bright-and-early phone call that I can only hope got her out of bed. I hotly suggested that she keep her home remedies to herself in the future. She was unsympathetic — said it helped her, and she had never experienced the drastic symptoms to which I was testifying. She dropped the names of a few famous people who all use the treatment. Good for them!
We have a forty-year friendship, and it has survived. Yes, I forgave her. But shhh! Don’t tell! I’ve never had the gallbladder issues since.
Random Twisted Thoughts
December 20, 2008
Random thoughts:
If we could find a way to preserve all this lovely, pristine snow until next July, we could make a Warren Buffet-sized fortune selling snow cones.
75% of all Wisconsinites buy underwear for their loved ones at Christmas. 85% of that underwear purchase is long johns. It is just too cold here. Suggestion for the white collar worker: buying long johns for your boss is not going to help you climb the corporate ladder — unless they are the frosted kind you find at the bakery.
Wisconsin postal customers who buy long johns of either type for their mailman for Christmas will be adored. In addition, have a hot coffee for him when he trots by, and you’ll receive premium treatment all year long. Your mail will get delivered on time whether your neighbors’ does or not.
Funny article about Alan Greenspan’s solution for the economy. Yes, it IS buying underwear for everyone at Christmas! (We’re ahead of ya here in Wisconsin, Alan!) http://www.heraldnet.com/article/20081130/LIVING/711309980/1021/BIZ07
I have proof that evolution is not true. Fossilization does not take millions of years. When my teen does the dishes, the dinner remains fossilize on the plates in the mere hours’ time before she gets around to washing them. No more Hogan’s Heroes videos for you, Beebee! Dishes first from now on.
Putting your holiday turkey outside the back door to cool is not a good idea. The Great Dane next door might saunter over and have it for a snack. I know. Anybody want beans and weenies for Christmas din-din?
The Santa Claus at the mall makes $30,000 for approximately six weeks of work. I know two of him personally and got the scoop. There are a lot of overhead costs, though. Eating at the Old Country Buffet five days a week in order to maintain his portly figure taxes his wallet. And the gout medicine needed as a result of all that buffet eating is expensive. Not to mention that Santa’s arteries won’t make it to ninety years of age. Next time you see the old codger, sympathize a bit. His life isn’t all that jolly.
Regifting is not only acceptable in Wisconsin; it is our duty — to save on landfill space. No one should have to permanently hang onto Grandma’s rummage sale purchase of three-feet-tall plastic butterflies, still shrink-wrapped. It may be her way of saying “Merry Christmas” this year, but it’s going to be mine next. If she waxes real forgetful in the coming twelve months, I’ll just give them back to her next December 25th. She’ll never know the difference, and at last the butterflies will have a happy home. Grandma will love them!
