I needed a week to recuperate from my last column, people, but I will now attempt to tackle a few more aspects of so-called social media today. I say “so-called” because in my opinion (which, let’s be honest, is the only one that counts ... in this column) social media is about as ANTI-social as anything could possibly be!
Good morning, gracious readers. Today’s tutorial will address the world of what we call “social media”, and its — some would say alarming — pervasiveness in our society. (That’s right — pretty professorial opening, huh? You know, I am not always the hilarious person you adore laughing at ... I mean with. I can be a highly intellectual individual, my friend, given to rampant ten-dollar words at the drop of a hat!)
A Dad starts becoming a Dad the moment his wife tells him she’s expecting. From that moment, he has not only one life to protect, to love, to nurture, to share with, to dream with ... he has two. He begins to be Almost-Dad by taking care of Almost-Mom: remember your prenatal vitamins, lie down, put your feet up, I’ll make dinner tonight, you do NOT look fat, you look GORGEOUS!
Today I’d like to address something I know is on all of our minds. Most of us are afraid to confront this issue, unless it pertains to one of our own children, but I will take it on. The subject, of course, is female hairstyles.
I’ve always wanted to be asked to give a commencement address, but except for my son’s preschool “ByeBye Banquet,” it has never happened and it probably never will. So, by golly, I’m going to do it here and now, for all you high school seniors out there who’ve heard it all, seen it all, and know it all. Here goes ,,,
When I met Mo’Nique (who had run her tail off on that tennis court in defiance of the heart attack that would surely have awaited, say, me) she hugged me so hard and so long that I felt I knew her intimately. Then, I realized it was one of those “we’re both famous” hugs that she wouldn’t give just anybody but me ... and my friend ... and Terry, the groundskeeper who happened to walk by with a shovel, but still, it was a great hug.
My son came over today — “Not To Visit, Mom!” he warned. “I just want to look through those boxes I stored in your attic for some notes I need.”
One year, I took my middle school 8th graders to see a play in a nearby town, although, on a school bus with a speed regulator on it and 40 screaming children, a teacher wouldn’t actually call it a “nearby” town. No, for a teacher it would fall under the heading “Might As Well Be Yemen.” But, as with childbirth, the heavens protect teachers from remembering the pain once it’s over, so that we’ll blindly trot right back into pregnancy and field trips as clueless as we were before.
Several Mother’s Days ago, my daughter called and asked me to come take care of grandson Charlie for the weekend. Her husband, God bless him, wanted to take her away, just the two of them, before baby #2 was born. I was thinking about that weekend today. Why? Here’s what I wrote that day — that never got published:
This is Part 2 of the story I began last week, regarding the 7 Dwarfs of the Menopausi family: Itchy, Bitchy, Sleepy, Sweaty, Bloated, Forgetful and Cries-A-Lot. I tell this story because there are women out there suffering through the dwarf visits, with no idea why, how, when, or, really, where they left their shoes. Also, for all the young women out there who will, eventually, join this family ... yes, girls, you can run, but you can’t hide.
Once upon a time, there were seven little dwarfs who lived deep inside the busy metropolis of a woman’s healthy, active body. They were only seen on rare occasions until the woman was around 53 years old, but at that point there would be a giant eruption, like a volcano, deep inside this mega-city, which caused the dwarfs to emerge and become very rowdy and, eventually, out of control, driving most of the more orderly and desirable inhabitants of this bustling burg far, far away.
I am frickin’ sick and tired of being “taken care of” by someone who “knows better” than I do how to run my life! I am sick of having things frustrate, delay and deny me because the big “THEY” (hereafter known as Those Who Need to Butt Out of My Life ... or TWNBOML, pronounced twin-bahm-el) decided on a better way “for my own safety”.
Happy Belated Easter to you all. I wish you peace, love and a basketful of jellybeans! I’m on Spring break…FINALLY! And, in honor of this wondrous holiday, I began a poem.
I’m your new Great-Aunt Vicki, and I’m so excited that you’re finally here! Not that I minded sitting in the hospital waiting for you to come ... and waiting ... and waiting ... FOREVER ... but, still ... I thought today I’d welcome you to the family, little Jack. Just warning you: In the days to come, I will hold you, cuddle you and kiss you until you protest really loudly. Get over it.
Aahhh ... Springtime is here. Trees are budding, flowers are popping up, birds are singing, and the grass is greening. It should be a time of happy beginnings, sweet expectations, and the bracing realization that there are only nine weeks left till we have to wear bathing suits.