It Was (Are You Ready?)... A Toadally Amazing Night

:::insert drum rimshot:::

As you may recall, at our last meeting our fair maiden/ sweet singleton (c'mon, I'm allowed a little creative license, right?) was headed off to a Stir even to meet toads or a frog, come what may.

I should have been more specific.  I was looking for a *male* frog or toad.  As it turned out, the ladies I met were a better replacement for a potential suitor - we really hit it off and I know we'll have many great times together in the future.  So if success is determined in how many numbers you go home with, I did pretty well.  There were 29 women and eight men who signed up for the event; I came home with two contact numbers.  Believe it or not, them's good stats.  By the way, before we move on... did you notice something? I said 29 women (including myself) and eight women.  Eight.  Men. That's roughly three and a half women for every man.  Those are amazing odds... for the guys.  Notsomuch for the rest of us.  ; )

When I walked in to the venue, I spied an open barstool flanked by ladies to the left, ladies to the right. Not having yet realized the male:female ratio yet, I sat down and ordered a drink thinking I'd move to more testosterone filled pastures after a bit.  I didn't.  I started talking to the ladies sitting by me, and we shared parenting stories, dating horror stories, and the like.  It was enjoyable and entertaining.  And we were not interrupted by any other attendees.  As the ladies and I chatted, we soon came to the conclusion that this was the best it was going to get.  We were right.  We decided that after we were done we'd move on to more local sites where hopefully the pickins wouldn't be quite so... slim.  Before we were able to wrap things up, one of The Eight approached us.

He was pretty harmless at first glance - had on a t-shirt and jeans, about 55-65 years old and was easy enough to talk to, especially since he was the only one who'd been brave enough to start talking to us. Turns out he's from the same area of town as we are and we had a nice conversation about his job, the local market, etc.  When it was time to go, we (and by "we" I mean me and my lady friends) said we'd meet at another venue and headed out, waving goodbye to Ralph*, The Brave.

Later at Venue Two we were at the bar, eating pizza and listening to music when what to our wondering eyes should appear but  Santa and eight tiny reindeer Ralph.  Hmm.  We didn't really anticipate this.  We made a pact to avoid eye contact and it was completely successful until the one person who didn't agree to the pact, Ralph, spied us.  "Ralph!  Hi... hey... waddaya know..." It was awkward.  Ralph made it awkwarder (hey!  Autocorrect says that's a word!) by being an extreme close talker.  Extreme- extreme.  Like, "hey, is this lap taken?" extreme.  Not cool.  We did get a brief break when we asked someone to take a pic of the three of us for posterity's sake. When you look at the picture now you see Ralph right over my friend's shoulder.  Insert foreboding music here.  Since we were about done with our night, we started our goodbyes and boot-scooted on home.  The night was not the success we had planned on, but was successful all the same.

The next night was yet another eventful night, the beginning of our local Irish pub's St Patrick's Day celebrations, as St Patrick's Day is the pub's High Holy Day.  My friends and I gathered for a quick pint and a brief opportunity to enjoy the place before it's descended upon by SPD partiers who only visit once a year the way others only go to church on Christmas or Easter.  We had effectively secured our favorite table (prime real estate, thankyouverymuch) and were having a grand ole' time. Until...

I felt a pat on my back.  Smiling I turned around to see what friend had joined us and saw... Ralph.  Ralph the Brave was quickly descending into the ranks of Ralph the Stalker.  Now, I know he has a good heart.  I mean, I'm pretty sure he does.  He seemed harmless at first.  But... that's a little much.  I thought it was a coincidence until I remembered part of the conversation from the night before when Ralph asked if I would be at the Thursday night event.  "Nope," I told him... and proceeded to explain about the pub's SPD celebrations.  Stupid, silly, mouthy Missy.  Too much information.  Just no.  I should have said just "no" - always talking to much.  Oh well.  As we talked he said, "We have a friend  in common!"  I was stunned and asked who - he gave me a little information and I realized who it was, but I was still stunned.  Here's the deal: all I could think was "What could have possibly prompted you to be talking about me to someone else after knowing me less than 24 hours and truly knowing very little about me?"It was... creepy!  It was!  I guess I could be flattered, but I was creeped. Out.

Soon after that, one of my friends asked if I needed help.  Gentle reader, understand - I have been in many an uncomfortable conversation with a man.  I have had ample experience in getting away from the unwanted advances of a stranger.  It's easy for me and I have no problem making my excuses and getting away.  There's no getting away from this guy - I couldn't even fit my glass in between us to take a sip or get a breath.  Extreme. Close. Talker.  So when my friend whispered in my ear "Do you need help?" I said YES!!!!!!  She got one of the bartenders, a huge older man who used to play college football, to come over and whisk me away.  He waited around for about ten minutes and when he moved on I was able to get back to my friends.  It's worth noting that while one friend offered help, she first went to my best friend and said "We need to help Missy!" to which she replied "Nooo!!!  This is too fun to watch."  In her defense, I bet it was.

Now... I feel bad about this, even today.  I'm not a mean person.  I'm not an unkind person.  I never want to do something that makes people sad or unhappy or in any way rejected... I'm just not that kind of person.  I know he felt bad when he left, and I hate that.  But... he made me so uncomfortable!  It was... too much.  So, now I have guilt and definitely have a completely awkward situation just WAITING for me out there.  As we all know, even though I have lived here six and a half years and never run in to Ralph once, you can rest assured I will run in to him over and over now.  It's Murphy's Law, and it will always have the upper hand.  Maybe, just maybe I'll meet a wonderful woman about Ralph's age who's a close talker and likes to stalk and I'll be able to introduce them and he'll have his happily ever after.  Odds are good I'll meet her before he does, and I'll meet her at a Stir event.


*name has been changed to protect the stalkerish innocent until proven guilty.

Time to Meet Some Toads

First off, I'm sorry I've been so lax in writing.  It's been over a year!  Terrible.  Shameful.  Naughty, horrible Missy.  For the last few months I kept thinking I would write something and while there have been a good number of reasons for me to not do so... there have been more reasons I should have.  I realized I've felt stifled and after turning *ta-dah* 45... I've decided to change things that aren't working.  Me not giving time to my writing... wasn't working.  So I'm back.  For now.  Till I move in a couple weeks... but that's a whole 'nother story.

Soooo... I'm single.  And I'm not gonna lie - it sucks.  Like, really sucks.  I know I should embrace it and be all "I'm FREE!  I don't have to think about someone else when I'm thinking about what I want to do on the WEEKEND and it's AWESOME! And I'm so LUCKY to have so many OPTIONS..." blah, blah, blah.  You know better than that.  Even if you're one of those people who's been married forever and live vicariously through us singletons as we have our first dates and get to flirt without guilt.   If I wanted to have a boyfriend, just a guy in my life... I could.  I mean, not that I'm full of myself by any stretch of the imagination, but there are men who would be willing to be exclusive with me and I know that.  The thing is, they aren't *it*.  Or they don't have *it*.  Or I don't have *it* with them.  I don't know.  It's frustrating and stupid and boring.  It's boring to be asked why I'm single.  It's boring to talk about how the dating pool for my demographic is a bit on the sludgy side (present company excluded, I'm sure... if you happen to fit into that particular group).  But yeah, sludgy.

What's a girl to do when she is single?  That's a great question, and one my friends and I have bounced around.  Bars?  Eh.  That rarely works out.  Work?  Nah.  Home improvement stores?  I'm, like, 1000% percent sure that only works in chick flicks.  There are precious few in-real-life occasions to meet guys, and my ten-years-of-being-unmarried self is proof of that.  Luckily (note heavy sarcasm) we live in the electronic age and I have the option of online dating!  Yay!  That sounds AWESOME.  And by awesome I mean... second only to tooth extractions or an audit by the IRS.  Totes awesome.

There was a time when I wasn't so pessimistic about the online dating game.  That was many moons ago, my friend - by this point in my life I've had accounts on Match (natch), eHarmony (egads), OKCupid (OKstupid), Plenty of fish (Plenty of freaks) and many others.  I've done speed dating, I've enrolled in a pseudo dating service, I've done the local radio station's Man Market... I have done.it.all.  I was really and truly about to throw in the towel when Match started their Stir Events.  Wait, a happy hour for just singles?  Where everyone in the room is single and you get to meet the person face-to-face?  That sounds great  a lot better  a little less painful.  When they sent me an offer for a renewed membership at a discounted rate, I was in.  This was going to be... something.  I was just sure of it.

I went to my first Stir event full of hope!  and a little nervous! and with a friend!  As can only happen in the World According to Missy, the event was on a Wednesday when I had lost my home to a fire the Thursday prior.  And on the way to the event?  I backed my month old Acadia into the Land Rover parked across the street from my friend's house.  Insert face palm *here*.  It was fantastic.  It was all I could do to not introduce myself by shaking hands and saying, "Hi, I'm Missy, The Trainwreck. I have NO idea why I'm single.  Wanna date?"

The thing of it is, I have a sneaking suspicion that line would have worked with most of the guys who were there that night.  :::sigh:::  The first guy we started chatting with did so by "cutting in line" to get a glass of wine, and then buying ours for us because he felt bad the bartender overlooked us.  Turns out he didn't really cut, but used that as an in to talk to us.  Ooooh, smarmy.  Then we felt guilty just walking away with the drinks he paid for, so we kept talking to him to be nice.  You know that "no good deed goes unpunished" line?  Well, it's true.  Turns out keeping him around to be nice to him was a sure fire way of repelling the guys we wanted to talk to.  Notice I said the guys we *wanted* to talk to... because the guys we DIDN'T want to talk to?  Yeah, they came around anyway.

A common experience I've had is the "I know why you're single" epiphany when you're chatting a guy up.  Asking if I like your button down plaid shirt and then telling me your sister helped you pick it out and it was REALLY expensive?  Yeah, I know why you're single.  Reaching out and adjusting my bangs so they're not in my face when we've known each other a nanosecond?  I know why you're single.  Following me and my friend around after we've said "Well, it was nice to meet you... you should meet some OTHER girls now!" I know why you're single.  And... leaving with the crack addict who wandered in to where we were after the event was over?  Dude, get used to being single.  I wish those were hypothetical.  They're not.  And if history tells me anything, I will see this guy tonight as he has been at almost every event I have.

Which begs the question: why do I keep going?  Everyone knows the definition of crazy - doing the same thing and expecting different results.  I know, I know.  The thing of it is I can't stand just not doing anything.  And as long as I'm trying, I know I'm trying.  I'm getting out there.  I'm giving it a chance.  And do I think I will find someone tonight? Honestly... I don't.  I'm super ridiculously absurdly optimistic.  TOO optimistic.  Painfully optimistic.  Seriously, I hope Rhett won't leave Scarlett each time I watch "Gone With the Wind."  (Don't judge!  It *could* happen.)  I believe in love, I believe in people and I believe in my future with Mr Forever.  But I have to be realistic, and I generally don't meet people I'd be interested in seeing outside of a Stir event when I'm there.  The thing of it is, if you don't try you won't know... so I'm trying.  And I do have a good time!  I do have interesting conversations, and I get good material for those "who's met the weirdest person in a dating situation" contest.  (The best one was the guy who cried not once, but twice...twice!... on our first date.  Our only date.  But I digress.)  

All that to say, I'm going tonight.  I'm hoping for my Frog Prince, but if I keep my expectations low I won't be surprised by all the toads.  I do know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I'll have some awesome stories to tell.  It's my duty to come armed with vignettes that make all my friends in relationships think "I'm SO glad I'm not in the dating world!"  I take it seriously, and luckily for you'ins... I've got lots of material.  Lots.  Cheers!

It's Just A (expletive deleted) Blog, People

Today I read an interesting article, about OSU (Oklahoma State, people... OSU doesn't always mean Ohio) coach Mike Gundy. It seems that he hired Brent Loveland, a contractor, to do some work on his house. Unfortunately the poor man showed up in an OU (again, think Oklahoma University, not Ohio) shirt to work. This... made Mr Gundy mad. Believe it or not, this is not the real point of this blog. I'm not starting a debate here about whether Mr Gundy is too uptight and needs to get a sense of humor about his rival (altho I totally think he should) or how completely stupid it is for a paid employee to wear something he knows will hack off his boss (said the girl who's worn Michigan flip-flops into the Buckeye Hall of Fame restaurant.) No, this blog is about cussing.

I'm not going to sit here and pretend I don't cuss. One, you wouldn't believe me. Two, it's not true. Three, oh, #$%^ what was I going to say for three? ; ) Sorry, I couldn't resist that one. As it turns out, tho, that's kind of my point. Why do they refrain from printing the swear words in articles? I mean, I *know* why they do - they're offensive. They're "not allowed" to write those words in the printed media. Fine. Don't print them. I tell you what tho, just because they haven't been printed doesn't mean reading the article won't make us *think* them. Watch:

The article quoted Mike Gundy as he voiced his disapproval regarding his contractor's wardrobe choice. He started out with a tame "How dare you come into my house and offend my wife?" When Mr Loveland didn't know what he was talking about, Mr Gundy said "That (expletive) shirt you have on." Mr Loveland, according to himself, didn't even think about his shirt as he had apparently gotten dressed in the dark. (REALLLLLY? We're supposed to believe that? Ooops, wait... that's not the point here. I digress.) Mr Gundy then proceeded to say “what a lowlife he was, telling him to ‘pack his (expletive) stuff and get off his (expletive) property.” Hmmm. Those direct quotes get a girl to thinking.

I don't think I'm that unusual of a person, I kind of see myself as Missy the Everyperson. Not everyone is going to agree with me, but there are some things I think I see the same way as alot of people. Things like stubbing your toe. Stubbing your toe hurts, and I'm against it. Feel free to disagree if you'd like, but I bet I'll get a solid majority voting my way on that one. Or air. I totally think everyone is entitled to have as much air as they need every day, regardless of how much air they may have used the day previous. I'm kinda generous when it comes to air. Pro air, definitely in favor of air. See? I'm Everyperson, just like you. That being said, when I read Mr Gundy's quote, I was compelled to fill in the blanks and I bet you were too. My internal dialog went something like this:

" 'That (expletive) shirt you have on.' Hmmmm, well, the placement of the (expletive) lends itself towards an adjective. I bet the bleeped word is... tangerine. Wait, no - it can't be that. OSU's colors are black and orange, so why would they delete the word tangerine. That BIG shirt you have on. Maybe it was so big you could see right into the sleeves and all his man hair was offensive to Gundy's wife. No, that's silly. You can write 'big' however or wherever you want, even in all caps. It must have been a... dirty word. That's it! They deleted a dirty word. What could it be? 'That damn shirt you have on.' That makes sense! I bet it's damn. But... people say damn on TV all the time. They write it alot. Dammit. It can't be damn. Hmmmm.... shitty? Maybe he said 'That shitty shirt you have on.' Well, that sounds just stupid. I mean really. If Mike Gundy can't swear better than that what is he worth. What would sound really, really powerful coming out of his mouth that would REALLY make it clear just how upset he was with this guy's wardrobe. O.M.G. He said fucking. He said fucking!!! 'That fucking shirt you have on'! THAT'S IT!!!" I won't bore you with the rest of the internal dialog, but suffice it to say me and my dirty word brain decided that Mr Gundy needs to bone up on some more creative cusswords. I'm like *pretty* sure he totally overused the same words.

Anyway, the point of this blog: Let's think about it for a second. The writer of the article (or writers of the articles, since this was covered pretty well in the press) fulfilled his journalistic duty by not printing the offending words. It seems to me, he's following the letter of the law... but not the spirit of the law. If the idea is to protect my fragile eyes (ears) from such foul language, he failed miserably. Honestly, it would have been better to just see the one swear word, rather than have me think the many, many swear words I tried to make fit. I was Goldilocks, tripping through the Swear Word Lexicon, searching for the just right cuss word to make sense of Mike Gundy's rant. Truth be told, I even said some swear words multiple times while testing it out to see if it really did fit. The whole experience was not unlike trying on a new pair of shoes. Do you slip on the shoe and take one step to see if it feels good? No! You march up and down the aisle and stop at the mirror turning this way and that to make sure you have the right shoe. Just like I did with the Mike Gundy Cuss Words.

So, I guess that's it. I just find it funny that in an effort to keep me from reading profanity, the writers end up making me think way more swear words than I would have if they had just kept it simple. Something easy like "That (insert f-bomb here) shirt you have on," or "That (rhymes with shucking) shirt you have on," or my favorite "That uckingfa shirt you have on." Come on, writers is it really so forking tough to find other ways to get the story out? I thought not. Commence to getting creative, and for the love of Pete, get a (bleeping) thesaurus, wouldja?

I Have The Cleanest Bathroom In Ohio

'Nother repost - needed to show this to a friend, so I'm posting it again:

May 2005

I have the cleanest bathroom in Ohio Current mood: crappy And to those of you who think "OH, she's sooooo luckeeee" (because I am, you know, she said nodding solemnly) let me just tell you how it got that way. I have a friend who is also a single mom, and two of her kids come home from school with me every day because the kids get along well with my kids and I'm free, which is in her price range. It's not a big deal, they're good kids, and having someone to play with who you aren't related to seems to work well with my kids. Today was a short day, meaning that the kids' dad picks them up early, so I only have my five after about 4 in the afternoon. Easy afternoon. The kids get picked up, Maddie's sleeping, everything's awesome... so I work on painting the livingroom some more. Great. The planets have lined up and everything is cool. The boys are playing outside and Max comes in to use the bathroom. "Mooooom.... the potty is spilling!" ***GASP*** "It's OVERFLOWING?!?!?!?" as I run to the bathroom grabbing towels. No, I'm informed, it's just full. Sure enough, that damn potty was full. Freak. Well, it's OK, I'll just flush it. Only -- oh, wait.... that was a bad idea. Turns out that one of the other kids had stopped up the potty and not told me. Now I know what you're thinking, "Sure, blame it on the kids who aren't yours, because yours are per-fect." Well, I'm the last one to say my kids are perfect, because they aren't, but I know they didn't flush and overfill the potty. How do I know this? Simple. They don't flush. Like, ever. EVER. And if it were a situation where they had used too much toilet paper? They would get me. For some reason, this girl won't tell me things I genuinely need to know... like "I used too much toilet paper." UGH And she was in there for 30 out of the 45 minutes she was here. Crap. SO, I have this bathroom.... which I will abstain from descibing, but there's a subtle clue in the last word in the above paragraph. It's OK, I'll wait right here while you look again....... Yeah, now you know. By this time, Maddie's awake and wanting to help. I decided that the very best kind of help she could offer me right now is to watch "A Bug's Life." As I walk into the livingroom to start said movie, I just got kinda frustrated with the whole thing (admittedly, this is when I like to think being a single parent sucks, but realistically, having a husband around wouldn't have changed anything today, LOL) and said, "Fuck, fuck, fuck." You have to know, I don't use that word very often, but it just seemed.... appropriate, you know? Appropriate, that is, till my little 2 1/2 year old magpie walking behind me echoed "Fawk, fawk, fawk" in her angelic voice. GREAT. Not only am I stopped in the middle of a paint job to clean up some other kids crap off my bathroom floor, now I have just taught my daughter to cuss. Excellent. Just call me an over achiever... or a multi-tasker... And that's the story of Missy and how she got the cleanest bathroom in Ohio. Or Missy, and how she started her diet early this weekend. Or Missy, and why she LOVES bleach. Whatever you decide to call it, now I need a Long Island Iced Tea, a good long run on the dance floor, and a babysitter. Not neccessarily in that order, for those of you taking notes. And tell that babysitter, the bathroom is FABULOUS.

Maddie's Comfort

Every so often I will repost old blogs here for... no particular reason. Today's repost is from March of 2006 and is one of my all time favorites, because you're allowed to have a favorite blog. Favorite child? Notsomuch. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do. : )

Maddie's Comfort Current mood:nurturing I had an epiphany this last Christmas, about singing. I love to sing, and I can carry a tune well enough... not that anyone will ever hear me. I'm what you call a shy singer, meaning no one gets the performance except the van, the shower, the large group of people singing all at once; you get the drift. I was in choir in school, took singing lessons and have even been in a church choir or two - I really, really enjoy it. With all that experience, I'm fairly well grounded in what kind of voice I have. I'm a soprano, and when necessary, can do a mean imitation of a second soprano. First and foremost, tho, I'm a soprano. Yes, even for Handel's Messiah. Missy = soprano. So it was with a certain amount of surprise that I realized I was singing alto this winter when I sang Christmas carols. How, in all my years of singing soprano, would I slip into an alto? Then, in a flash, my epiphany. I remembered snuggling with my mother, my head on her chest, absorbing the comfort of her alto voice resonating in her chest. It became clear to me that that was where I had learned the Christmas carols, nestled in my mother's arms as a child, and I echoed her voice, rather than my own. That echoing of our parents' voices is something that happens to all parents at one time or another, I'd imagine. Ask anyone who has a child over the age of five, and it's a good bet that the words "I sounded just like my mother (or father) just then.... I swore I'd never say that!" have been uttered at some point. It was nice to have it be such a positive memory, a connection even, to sound like my mother. This afternoon I was comforting my Maddie. She's sick today, listless and glassy-eyed. It seems a temperature of 103 has a way of making the most energetic little three year old girl stop in her tracks, and Maddie is no exception. Also like most three year olds, she sought comfort in her mother's arms. With her head nestled against my chest, I sang to my newest musical craving, Joshua Radin's album "We Were Here." The song I just can't get enough of, "Winter" came on, and I started singing the harmony along with it. I hit the repeat button on my stereo's remote to hear it just one more time. Suddenly, I wasn't able to sing for a bit, my heart in my throat. It was at that point that I noticed a soft, sweet voice rising from the little girl in my arms... singing harmony, just like her momma.

The Red Clock

Funny thing about epiphanies - they happen when you least expect them. My most recent one was here, on vacation in Chicago. We have rented an apartment for the week, and it’s amazing. The three bedroom, two and a half bathroom apartment has a fabulous view of downtown and the lake and is right next to Grant Park. We’re in walking distance to...well, everything! The decorations are minimalist and refreshing, speaking as someone who has been living in a much-too-small-home for the last couple years. By minimalist, I mean... there’s really nothing. In the master bedroom, there are two framed pieces of woven bamboo and one red clock. One.red.clock.

The night we arrived, I noticed that the time was off on the clock in my room. I took it down, set it to the right time (3 am) and hung it back up. I figured the next morning I would know if I had fixed it or if it was just needing a new battery.

The next day Max said something about not knowing what time it was since the clock in my room said it was 3. I told him it was a dead battery and not to worry about it. Then a funny thing happened... I realized I heard the tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall. Weird. Upon further examination, I realized it wasn’t a dead battery, it was a stuck clock.

The second hand just keeps going... and getting nowhere. Nowhere! From the sound of it, the clock is functioning just fine. Look at the clock for a moment and you think it’s in working order. A casual glance won’t really tell you that the clock is not fine. Not fine. Not in working order. Working on the surface, but a mess inside. Spinning in it’s tracks.

The red clock is stuck in time. Then, the epiphany...stuck in time... just like me. This is the place I have found myself in for the last few months. Time’s gone on, things have changed, and as the weeks and months have passed I feel like nothing.has.changed. Without getting into the personal details too much, I’ve been waiting for time to heal the pain... for the passing of time to magically take me to a place of peace and acceptance... to finally be in a place where I don’t live in the what ifs and the regrets of things said or not said - constantly wondering about what might have been. I’m a stuck clock.

Let me tell you, it hasn’t been fun at all. I haven’t been “happy.” I haven’t been “ok.” In Alison Krauss’ song “Paper Airplane” she sings a line that makes so much sense to me: “How many days should I smile with a frown?” How long do I have to hide the sadness, the discontent, the longing that’s been in my heart? How long do I have to wait...

I have spent so much of the last seven years of my life waiting. Waiting for the divorce to be final. Waiting for the court stuff to be over. Waiting for the next job. Waiting for the right guy to come in to my life. Waiting...waiting...waiting. The whole time, I’ve been wanting things - wanting to move, wanting to start my writing full-force, wanting to do what I want to do. At the end of the day, I’ve come to a place of feeling horribly, terribly, painfully... trapped. Please don’t read this and think “She’s a terrible mom - she wishes she didn’t have her kids.” That’s not the case at all, my kids are my life. That being said, I’m tired of everything in my life being dictated by the restrictions placed on me because I have kids. I’ve come to understand that part of being a good mom is showing my kids what it takes to be a happy, healthy adult. There’s a fine line between doing something selfish and doing something that’s better for everyone, whether they know it at the time or not.

I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know what changes will be necessary to unstick my clock. What I do know, what I have to know... is it will happen. It might be a small change, it might be a big one. Whatever it is, you can rest assured I’ll be sharing it here... and if you miss the blog, just listen for the tick, tick, tick coming from my unstuck heart.

There's An App For That!

I have a confession. The first time I was introduced to the idea of "apps" I didn't really *get* them. My first boyfriend to have an iPhone was someone who in the interest of anonymity I’ll call “The Macedonian.” I know, I know - some of you know exactly who I’m talking about, but still. ANYWAY..., he would sit in my living room either waiting for me to get ready or just killing time and he was always plucking away at his iPhone. At the time I thought he was replying to work emails or doing something terribly important. I was so relieved that he had access to these Terribly Important Things even when he was stuck at my house... I was thankful that he remained unburdened by the limitations of not having access to his computer. As time went on and I saw more people with their iPhones I was again struck by all these Terribly Important Things people were accomplishing while in the doctor’s waiting room or in line at the bank or waiting in the airport terminal. Where would these poor people be without their iPhones.... Can you imagine all the Terribly Important Stuff they'd be missing?!?! Oh, the horror of it all. As I watched these people over the years I was glad they had access to their Terribly Important Stuff, but I started to realize I was filled with another emotion... I was filled with a need to have.my.own. 'Tis true, dear reader... I coveted that iPhone and longed for the day that I would have one of my own. I mean really, how may Terribly Important Things was *I* missing because of my stupid 'ole Rogue phone? (that's right... I went Rogue before I went iPhone- don't blame me, blame Verizon!!!). Anyway, I was a wishin' and a hopin' for the day when the world would be right and I would have an iPhone.

That day came my friend... That.day.came. February 3rd... I set my alarm, woke up early and pre-ordered my iPhone. Read that again, did you see what it said? MY iPhone! Oh, yeah... That happened. I was one of the lucky ones to get the limited quantity of iPhones available for presale. Even tho they weren't officially for sale till Feb 10th I had that bad boy in my hot little hand,

activated and ready for business at 2:40 pm on Feb 7. I have to say, I felt superior. Wildly superior, truth be told. Wildly superior until just after 3 pm when I picked Ben up from school and showed him my P & J (come on, you know... Pride and Joy!!!). “Cool, Mom!!! What apps do you have?!?!?!” My first reaction was of the defensive variety. “Ummm... I’ve had it twenty minutes.... I haven’t really had *time* to get any apps,” with a tone of voice that hinged on condescending... as if I would have had LOTS of apps had I had just the teeniest bit more time. In all honesty, the second reaction I had was “Holy cow. I don’t know anything about apps. I have an iPhone and I don’t know anything about apps.” I was... an iPhone moron.

It’s not like I didn’t know what apps *were*... I mean, I knew they existed, but my knowledge of them was akin to nuclear power or physics or how to make bread that rises on it’s own (I have never really gotten that whole “yeast” and “punching down” thing)... I know they’re out there, I know someone on the planet has to understand them... and as it turns out, I’m not that person. My knowledge was limited to the recognition that the phrase “There’s an app for that!” is the Apple community’s equivalent of “That’s what she said!” It works in many conversations, you don’t have to necessarily *get* the joke to say it, and it always, always gets a big laugh. It made me look like when I was in the know when I was so just... not. And there I was... an iPhone owner lost in a sea of apps.

Thank God I have children. I’m sure this is not a new concept to my parent friends out there, but to those who have not yet procreated, lemme ‘splain. Kids today... understand everything. We have to pull out the manual, skim through it, not understand it, google about it, kick it and then we accidentally push some right button to get whatever our new technologically advanced state-of-the-art blah-blah thing is to turn on. Or change channels. Or record. Or...well, you get the picture. It’s tough. Kids? Nope - they pull the paci out of their mouth, stretch for the new jazzy thing that we don’t know how to use, and as the words “Don’t touch that!!!” are falling from our lips... they have jumpstarted the thing. It’s true... I’ve seen it happen... I swear! So.... anyway, thank God for my kids. My kids really got me introduced to some cool apps. Other friends did, too, but the ones my kids have shown me have been life. changing. For reals.

Without my kids I wouldn’t know about...wait, are you ready? Because once I show you this information, I can’t un-show you... so...make sure you’re ready before you read this. Without my kids I wouldn’t know about the NinJump app. It’s hard to explain, but let me show you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Gi5rRqzZ3M

Now, that’s not my video, because my high score is way better ; ) but... you see how the game involves slicing and jumping and bouncing back in forth in a big blue ball of invincibility?!?!? It’s... amazing. So now, when I’m stuck in line at the bank, or waiting too long at the dentist’s or my hairdresser is behind... no worries! There’s bluebirds to whack. I’ve got lots of things to do with my previously wasted time. Lots. And then, one day it occurred to me... people think I’m doing Terribly Important Things! And I am!!!! I’m honing my ninja skills! I’m getting higher and higher scores and exercising my index finger like no one’s business. Seriously. It has also opened my eyes as to all those Terribly Important Things other people were doing... things like The Angry Birds or Farmville... or... NinJump. I see the world through new eyes, and I fully appreciate it. Some may think the world is their oyster, but I now know the truth... it’s an app. Not everyone will understand that, but trust me... one day you will understand. One day, you will understand. And if you don’t? Well... there’s an app for that. (Come on, you had to see that one coming.) ; )