Woke up this morning sort of out of step with the world.
It got me to thinking... how much of my day is spent (or wasted) with chasing after things, circumstances and dreams instead of actual accomplishments?
I've also been reading about families and schools that are encouraging families to be doing "technology blackouts" in their homes.
Hmm.
Blackout.
Would anyone notice if I skipped my contact with them for a prolonged time period?
Would it be missed by another if I didn't blog?
How about that pesky cell phone of 24-hour linkage? If the line went silent of chatter, would it matter?
Really. Would it matter?
I'm not sure on these things since we aren't living atop Walton's Mountain and we, in our alleged to be better modern society, haven't learned what we can and can't do without. Technology of all stripes has been available to most of us since the day we drew our first breath.
There are some conveniences to having 24-hour access as well as some hefty drawbacks. While we are all thankful for advances in medical technologies that prolong the lives of each person blessed by their presence, there remains the question of just how much information can be shoved into the public eye before we blink or flinch or simply withdraw.
In the movie "Freaky Friday" (the remake, not the oldie), the threat is made to put a teenager into a "phoneless, dateless, Amish existence". In this day and age with the vast forms of media and technology saturation, that is a credible threat. Babies seem to be born with a cell phone in their hands and an email account established before the ink is dry on their first handprints.
But is that a favor or an albatross? Are we helping them or turning them into drones, slaves to technology that is now the master?
I do worry about it because if ANY of the dire predictions of the world's end are true, they all share one common thread, communication in our modern time will cease to exist. The writers of horror know the one dread shared by all... to be silent and unheard.
Helen Keller knew a lot about being unheard in her day. The array of technological opportunity was not even dreamed of during her lifetime. Even the brightest among us couldn't have forseen the changes that could come from small devices that can talk for those who cannot talk on their own.
My own son, Jared, is the proud owner and user of such a piece of wonder. His "Tango!" gives him a voice for a variety of settings. He selects the wording and the "Tango!" speaks for him.
While not yet an exact science for him, it helps.
Imagine what could have changed for Helen Keller if computers had been available to her to record her ideas, thoughts and feelings. While we do have some of her quotes and thoughts given to us through her faithful and dedicated teacher, Ann Sullivan, there is much about Helen Keller that remains a mystery until we meet at the bar of God.
How much of our lives can even be considered mystery now? We tell everyone everything except for our dirtiest of secrets - and those can even be shared for the money on reality TV.
We think the world wants to know the minutia of our lives and treat every message, email and phone call as if we are alone in our need to be heard.
But what if the options disappeared? To borrow a phrase by Garth Brooks: "if tomorrow never comes", how would we adjust to a life that was solitary and which only boasted the most primative communications and shared conversations?
During my youth, I read a story about the development of the telegraph and the station to station operators who transmitted faithful dits and dots of messages from one end of the line to another. Often, these men (and a few women) were isolated in railroad shacks awaiting the next train.
So lonely were these outposts of modernity that the only means of communication THEY possessed was their telegraph line.
It is a form of solitude that most of us would simply be unable to survive.
Two men, separated by miles of rugged country and praries filled with grasses, crops and cattle played chess via the telegraph line. They NEVER met. They NEVER sat face to face and shared a laugh over a cup of coffee. Yet their need to be known made the telegraph wires hum with chess moves sent through miles of cable to the shack down the line.
Just something to think about today.
February 9, 2011
February 7, 2011
Things best left undone...
Nighttime is a fun time of night. More especially so when you are sleep deprived. I say this because nocturnal wanderings are oh so much more fun in the dark. Some things are better left undone or only attempted with the light turned on.
But you never find that out until hindsight kicks in... if you will pardon the pun.
When you are sleepy, you don't think straight and seldom do you make rational choices. Take for instance this unhappy scenario -
While wandering through the house at odd hours desperately perambulating around furniture, shoes, pets and other obstacles in a somnambulant state, I am searching with my hands outstretched for the medicine cabinet. I know where it is in my sleep. Or at least I know IN THEORY.
After a couple of false starts in the spice racks, I find the proper cabinet. Because I attempt to be a polite person and not roast the retinas of the sleeping inhabitants of the house, I leave the lights off. Being awakened by the brilliant flickering of overhead lighting isn't the best way to wake up.
And I don't WANT middle of the night company anyway. I just want DRUGS!! At this point, my arm is falling off or doing a credible imitation of it, and I want to salvage whatever giblets of sleep may remain before the alarm rudely compels me to rise without my requisite sleep fulfillment.
In my attempt to gather the medicine that will restore some semblance of sanity, I reach out feeling the bottles in the shelf determining by height which of the bottles is "THE ONE" that contains the miracle cure. I have them arranged by what they are for just such an occasion.
That was a bad idea. A really, REALLY bad idea.
Did you know that my pain reliever tablets come in EXACTLY the same size and shape bottle as the little laxative pills do?
Yeah, me neither. Until later on...
Never try to sprint to the bathroom while you are half asleep. The doorjamb is NOT your friend and sitting down on the cold porcelain because the seat is up isn't meant for sissies in February's chill.
Of course, the good news is that now I can hit all of those high soprano notes that normally elude my second alto self. But since I have politely shoved a towel into my own mouth to prevent my frozen tail inspired screaming from waking the entire neighborhood, no one can hear me scream. It's a scene that Alfred Hitchcock would love with the juxtaposition of near comedy and absolute tragedy mixed in a shaker of dark-thirty theater in the round.
As a note of caution, install some instant turn-on lights in your medicine chest. It may save your life. No one wants "Died from pneumonia due to a frozen butt" chiseled on their tombstone.
I'm just sayin'...
But you never find that out until hindsight kicks in... if you will pardon the pun.
When you are sleepy, you don't think straight and seldom do you make rational choices. Take for instance this unhappy scenario -
While wandering through the house at odd hours desperately perambulating around furniture, shoes, pets and other obstacles in a somnambulant state, I am searching with my hands outstretched for the medicine cabinet. I know where it is in my sleep. Or at least I know IN THEORY.
After a couple of false starts in the spice racks, I find the proper cabinet. Because I attempt to be a polite person and not roast the retinas of the sleeping inhabitants of the house, I leave the lights off. Being awakened by the brilliant flickering of overhead lighting isn't the best way to wake up.
And I don't WANT middle of the night company anyway. I just want DRUGS!! At this point, my arm is falling off or doing a credible imitation of it, and I want to salvage whatever giblets of sleep may remain before the alarm rudely compels me to rise without my requisite sleep fulfillment.
In my attempt to gather the medicine that will restore some semblance of sanity, I reach out feeling the bottles in the shelf determining by height which of the bottles is "THE ONE" that contains the miracle cure. I have them arranged by what they are for just such an occasion.
That was a bad idea. A really, REALLY bad idea.
Did you know that my pain reliever tablets come in EXACTLY the same size and shape bottle as the little laxative pills do?
Yeah, me neither. Until later on...
Never try to sprint to the bathroom while you are half asleep. The doorjamb is NOT your friend and sitting down on the cold porcelain because the seat is up isn't meant for sissies in February's chill.
Of course, the good news is that now I can hit all of those high soprano notes that normally elude my second alto self. But since I have politely shoved a towel into my own mouth to prevent my frozen tail inspired screaming from waking the entire neighborhood, no one can hear me scream. It's a scene that Alfred Hitchcock would love with the juxtaposition of near comedy and absolute tragedy mixed in a shaker of dark-thirty theater in the round.
As a note of caution, install some instant turn-on lights in your medicine chest. It may save your life. No one wants "Died from pneumonia due to a frozen butt" chiseled on their tombstone.
I'm just sayin'...
February 6, 2011
What's the Deal?
Fashion plate, I am not.
The rare concession I make to step out of this blue jeans and tee shirt lifestyle of mine comes in two flavors: the temple or Sunday church meetings.
But what happened today was beyond all reason. Either that or I have secretly turned into the troll beneath the bridge in the story of "The Three Billy Goat's Gruff" and just didn't notice (it IS one of my favorite childhood stories... but I digress).
Honestly, I'm hoping for the "beyond all reason" part.
Truth be told, I'd rather listen to a speech by Vince Lombardi than learn how to do tatting (well, I mean, who wouldn't) and I'm not a big fan of the crafty, scrapbooky, curlicued girly things that make other female hearts go aflutter. Of course, most of them can't pick off the runner at second base either.
But on temple days and Sundays, I do more than the 5 minute lick and a promise shower routine and actually take the time to be presentable to the Lord. It is HIS house, after all and I am the guest seeking His presence. While He may have a moments' pause identifying me in my dressed up uniform of the day, I don't want Him to give me the cold shoulder because I look more like the gardener than the princess. He is worth the effort.
For the last few Sundays, due to the nasty cold and my low tolerance for becoming a human iceberg, I have worn my warmest skirt. It happens to be black velour. I like it and my butt doesn't become a permanent fixture attached to a metal folding chair while at the meetings. I have been told black is a universal color that matches everything. Evidently, it matches everything but ME.
I have a vast array of shirts to wear. The pink one (which is a pain to iron), the purple one with the vest, the purple one without the vest, the blue one and a couple of undershirt type colored tops that go with a summery green shirt or underneath any of the above for a splash of color. Okay, vast may have been a slight overstatement, but I do have dress shirts that are not emblazoned with the faces of the men and women of country. Just not a Lane Bryant's worth.
On other people, that combo of color with basic black appears to be fashionable.
Apparently it doesn't appear the same way on me. Who knew? There must be a secret handshake that brings it all together, but no one has showed me or I was getting a fudgesicle at the time.
Today, I broadened my wardrobe because the temperatures were above freezing and it seemed like a good day to venture into other clothing in my closet. I slipped into my brown skirt, a brown multicolored lined sweater thingy and a light tan blazer. It was warm enough to keep me from certain hypothermia and I thought it looked reasonable enough to pass muster.
To the eyes of other people however, I must have looked substantially different because I had like a gazillion people tell me how much they liked my outfit and that is suited me well. Hmmmm. Let's ponder that.
The insecure part of me wonders... if today was such an improvement to them does this mean what I think it does? Really, I can only see a couple of options.
(1) I must have taken extraordinary time and skill to make myself presentable today (time of which I remain blissfully unaware and the alleged skilled improvement in style which I will never be able to repeat!)
OR
(2) The rest of the time I look like a Goodwill dumpster refugee who still got it wrong and they are too nice to say so.
Should there happen to be other options, I'm broadminded enough to entertain them.
My concern here is that since I happen to direct the music right up front each week for sacrament service, I am inflicting a visual tableau of fashion tragedy on the entire congregation! No wonder I get smiles from them when I direct!!
I like to hope in my tiny bruised heart of ego that the congregants are smiling because the music brings them happiness. But I have to wonder sometimes...
Maybe they aren't smiling because they are 'feeling the Spirit'!! They are smiling because they are thinking "you're ugly and your Momma dresses you funny!" Holy cow... and half a goat!
Then again, they may be smiling because they are thinking "I'll be the saleslady that got that outfit together won a prize for moving merchandise that was gathering dust for years!".
Truthfully, I like to feel confident when I dress for special moments out. I want people to think I have the brains to pull together something that won't blind the masses and render them temporarily helpless in paroxysms of laughter behind their hymnbooks.
It is my secret ambition to please my husband and make him, for at least a brief moment, remember that I can dress nicely and want to see him smile at me in that way that still makes me blush to my toes. Now, I am reduced to drivel wondering just why anyone lets me out of the house without a complete white glove test to ensure that I am preview ready for the public eye.
The paranoid part of my psyche is concerned... the devil may care part of my psyche keeps double dog daring me to wear blue floral pajamas to church with orange sox. Surely there is a happy medium... isn't there? Today, I have serious reservations regarding where that dividing line exists.
Never having thought of myself as the kind of woman who attracted attention for being dressed in some type of particularly outstanding fashion sense or bedecked in jaw dropping attire, I cleverly assumed that looking 'nice' was going along well. Apparently, my version of nice is one notch above wearing a concert T-shirt to church.
Oh wait... I've done that. Crap.
I look at women who are well put together physically and wardrobe-wise and kind of envy the smooth sophistication they exude. It's a literal wave of confident and charismatic flow. They walk with grace into a room and men's heads turn in their direction because they are the embodiment of what it is to be a woman.
If a man's head turns in my direction, it's generally because I know the overtime score to the game and can accurately describe the post pattern or Hail Mary pass that won the game. I kinda like that.
Then there are the other days that it would be nice to have that confidence that says "I am woman, hear me roar!" where I would know with absolute assurance that I was well turned out and there wasn't a barbecue stain on my blouse somewhere that was really the showstopping attention getter.
I kindly thanked the host of people who complimented my attire today. I truly appreciated their compliments and I hope my thanks to them wasn't off-putting due to inexperience at fielding them. It might have gone better if it had been a frozen rope to center... I'm just saying.
It's nice to be noticed, but I now have to wonder WHY I was?
If every week is such a train wreck of fabric disaster, isn't there one single person who loves me enough to say "girl, you look like a hot mess"? Or are they simply too ashamed to try? Perhaps they HAVE tried and simply gave up because I am a hopeless waste of information. I may have a line on what the snickering behind hymnbooks is about now...
It's an odd sort of deal. I want to look nice, but I'm not sure I can take the pressure of living up to the expectations of those who think they are in for a repeat next Sunday.
A girl can only take so much!!
Man, those pajamas are looking better and better all the time.
The rare concession I make to step out of this blue jeans and tee shirt lifestyle of mine comes in two flavors: the temple or Sunday church meetings.
But what happened today was beyond all reason. Either that or I have secretly turned into the troll beneath the bridge in the story of "The Three Billy Goat's Gruff" and just didn't notice (it IS one of my favorite childhood stories... but I digress).
Honestly, I'm hoping for the "beyond all reason" part.
Truth be told, I'd rather listen to a speech by Vince Lombardi than learn how to do tatting (well, I mean, who wouldn't) and I'm not a big fan of the crafty, scrapbooky, curlicued girly things that make other female hearts go aflutter. Of course, most of them can't pick off the runner at second base either.
But on temple days and Sundays, I do more than the 5 minute lick and a promise shower routine and actually take the time to be presentable to the Lord. It is HIS house, after all and I am the guest seeking His presence. While He may have a moments' pause identifying me in my dressed up uniform of the day, I don't want Him to give me the cold shoulder because I look more like the gardener than the princess. He is worth the effort.
For the last few Sundays, due to the nasty cold and my low tolerance for becoming a human iceberg, I have worn my warmest skirt. It happens to be black velour. I like it and my butt doesn't become a permanent fixture attached to a metal folding chair while at the meetings. I have been told black is a universal color that matches everything. Evidently, it matches everything but ME.
I have a vast array of shirts to wear. The pink one (which is a pain to iron), the purple one with the vest, the purple one without the vest, the blue one and a couple of undershirt type colored tops that go with a summery green shirt or underneath any of the above for a splash of color. Okay, vast may have been a slight overstatement, but I do have dress shirts that are not emblazoned with the faces of the men and women of country. Just not a Lane Bryant's worth.
On other people, that combo of color with basic black appears to be fashionable.
Apparently it doesn't appear the same way on me. Who knew? There must be a secret handshake that brings it all together, but no one has showed me or I was getting a fudgesicle at the time.
Today, I broadened my wardrobe because the temperatures were above freezing and it seemed like a good day to venture into other clothing in my closet. I slipped into my brown skirt, a brown multicolored lined sweater thingy and a light tan blazer. It was warm enough to keep me from certain hypothermia and I thought it looked reasonable enough to pass muster.
To the eyes of other people however, I must have looked substantially different because I had like a gazillion people tell me how much they liked my outfit and that is suited me well. Hmmmm. Let's ponder that.
The insecure part of me wonders... if today was such an improvement to them does this mean what I think it does? Really, I can only see a couple of options.
(1) I must have taken extraordinary time and skill to make myself presentable today (time of which I remain blissfully unaware and the alleged skilled improvement in style which I will never be able to repeat!)
OR
(2) The rest of the time I look like a Goodwill dumpster refugee who still got it wrong and they are too nice to say so.
Should there happen to be other options, I'm broadminded enough to entertain them.
My concern here is that since I happen to direct the music right up front each week for sacrament service, I am inflicting a visual tableau of fashion tragedy on the entire congregation! No wonder I get smiles from them when I direct!!
I like to hope in my tiny bruised heart of ego that the congregants are smiling because the music brings them happiness. But I have to wonder sometimes...
Maybe they aren't smiling because they are 'feeling the Spirit'!! They are smiling because they are thinking "you're ugly and your Momma dresses you funny!" Holy cow... and half a goat!
Then again, they may be smiling because they are thinking "I'll be the saleslady that got that outfit together won a prize for moving merchandise that was gathering dust for years!".
Truthfully, I like to feel confident when I dress for special moments out. I want people to think I have the brains to pull together something that won't blind the masses and render them temporarily helpless in paroxysms of laughter behind their hymnbooks.
It is my secret ambition to please my husband and make him, for at least a brief moment, remember that I can dress nicely and want to see him smile at me in that way that still makes me blush to my toes. Now, I am reduced to drivel wondering just why anyone lets me out of the house without a complete white glove test to ensure that I am preview ready for the public eye.
The paranoid part of my psyche is concerned... the devil may care part of my psyche keeps double dog daring me to wear blue floral pajamas to church with orange sox. Surely there is a happy medium... isn't there? Today, I have serious reservations regarding where that dividing line exists.
Never having thought of myself as the kind of woman who attracted attention for being dressed in some type of particularly outstanding fashion sense or bedecked in jaw dropping attire, I cleverly assumed that looking 'nice' was going along well. Apparently, my version of nice is one notch above wearing a concert T-shirt to church.
Oh wait... I've done that. Crap.
I look at women who are well put together physically and wardrobe-wise and kind of envy the smooth sophistication they exude. It's a literal wave of confident and charismatic flow. They walk with grace into a room and men's heads turn in their direction because they are the embodiment of what it is to be a woman.
If a man's head turns in my direction, it's generally because I know the overtime score to the game and can accurately describe the post pattern or Hail Mary pass that won the game. I kinda like that.
Then there are the other days that it would be nice to have that confidence that says "I am woman, hear me roar!" where I would know with absolute assurance that I was well turned out and there wasn't a barbecue stain on my blouse somewhere that was really the showstopping attention getter.
I kindly thanked the host of people who complimented my attire today. I truly appreciated their compliments and I hope my thanks to them wasn't off-putting due to inexperience at fielding them. It might have gone better if it had been a frozen rope to center... I'm just saying.
It's nice to be noticed, but I now have to wonder WHY I was?
If every week is such a train wreck of fabric disaster, isn't there one single person who loves me enough to say "girl, you look like a hot mess"? Or are they simply too ashamed to try? Perhaps they HAVE tried and simply gave up because I am a hopeless waste of information. I may have a line on what the snickering behind hymnbooks is about now...
It's an odd sort of deal. I want to look nice, but I'm not sure I can take the pressure of living up to the expectations of those who think they are in for a repeat next Sunday.
A girl can only take so much!!
Man, those pajamas are looking better and better all the time.
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