This Girl

What a strange spring we've had. Near ninety degree weather in March. Followed by forties and windy. I miss the good old days when we had two good months of mid-60 degree weather. Now those were seasons to remember. When the tulips teased their way to the surface. When the robins rousted you out of bed each morning. When you still needed a sweatshirt in the morning and evening, but could get by with a long sleeved shirt midday. Tonight made me think of those seasons past. Cool. Light breeze. Perfect night for a hoodie. I grabbed my pale, light gray hoodie emblazoned with my high school mascot--a profile of a proud, strong Warrior. As I left the house for my nightly walk, I threw it over my head and settled in to a comfortable stride. About ten minutes into my neighborhood stroll, memories of hoodies past surfaced. In normal times, I imagine that I wouldn't think twice about sweatshirts. But these are not normal times. These are abrupt times. These are times for rash decisions...

I think of everything in life as either an adventure or an experiment. Social media has been a bit of both. An experiment to test the power, the purpose, the potential of these engines of connectivity. An adventure to test my willingness to meander into uncharted territory, to strike up a conversation with a stranger on the train, to let go of the fear of the unknown. So, I am writing this post as a follow up to the last thesis that asked the question of the Antisociality of Social Media: Who Are We and How Did We Get Here? To answer this question, I will address the good, the bad and the ugly, in no particular order. These are just observations, open to interpretation and critique. This is just my commentary on the adventure and experiment we call social media. I must admit that my research is limited to Facebook since I do not tweet, I don't play four square (sounds like an elderly card game), I'm still not sure what spotify is, am too lazy to figure out flickr, have a Goog...

(Response forthcoming in part two) I'm bad with names. I can remember a face no problem. But names are automatically sent to an unlockable vault deep within the cortex of my brain. I don't know if it is my short term memory that is a problem or long term. I have forgotten names of people I have just met while they are finishing their "Hi, I'm so and so. Nice to meet you." You had me at Hi and lost me by "I'm so and so." Likewise, I also can't remember the names of people I grew up with. I dread going out and about in my hometown for fear that I will run into someone who is purportedly my BFF from 1986 and I just don't remember his or her name to save my life. I'm partial to the Elaine Benes idea that we should all wear name tags. (For those not familiar with Seinfeld, Google it.) Now, one might be inclined to suggest that I see a neurologist to have a thorough hippocampus evaluation. But I'm not so sure the problem is c...

America is my country and Paris is my hometown. Gertrude Stein I must admit that I do not know much about Gertrude Stein except for the bare minimum needed to answer a random trivia question. That, and what comes up on the Google. Lately, though, it seems that every time I need a witty quote, there she is, saying the words that are trapped in my brain, waiting to find the right neuropathways that allow them to connect into what exits as an eloquent descriptor of exactly what I wanted to say.  While many Americans may have an erroneous view of all things Paris, I happen to like it. A lot. I've heard many myths about Paris since I've voiced my love for this city. One of my favorites is "I heard Paris stinks really bad." Really? As opposed to Hammond, IN? I've been stuck on the Chicago-Indiana Skyway far too often not to know what stinky is. Then there is "the French are rude!" Huh. And how many have insulted you lately? And "aren't you afraid t...

You've known for a long time that my greatest wish is to become a journalist someday and later on a famous writer--Anne Frank What I am about to say is going to shock some of you and probably make some of you use the Google, as the thing by which you will be shocked is somewhat of a lost art. Or science, for that matter, as this thing requires intersecting lines that have meaning, much like a graph of data points should have meaning. But anyway, one of my favorite classes in Junior high school was English class. Oh, you mean because of all the great books and stories you got to read? No. Well then, it must have been because of all the great stories you got to write. Not necessarily. English was my favorite subject because....wait for it.....we got to diagram sentences. The Catholic school way, too. Brutal. Intricate. No room for error. The please, God, don't let me make a mistake and have to use the eraser way of diagramming sentences. Now, before you throw the proverbial tom...

There's nothing like a good practical joke; especially one that is lighthearted, with no malicious intent. Practical joking is sort of in my blood, inherited from my Father, most likely. Except the practical joking trait displays a wide range of continuous phenotypic variation much like, for example, height. The range of joking here would run from "that is soooooo not funny" to "ROTFLMAO". There may also be a certain degree of phenotypic plasticity here that explains the environmental influence on the funniness of practical jokes. For instance, consider the degree of funny on sliding a whoopee cushion under your sibling's behind. When done in the confines of your own home, during family dinner or perhaps a slumber party, well, yeah, that could be pretty funny. Done in the middle of church, with your parents two seats down, well, that could yield bad consequences for all those involved, including innocent bystanders. But, once again, I have severely digresse...

My first job out of high school was a part time gig at a nursing home as a Tray Aide. My main duties were to make beds, exchange linens, fill ice and water pitchers in residents' rooms and help the Nurse Aides as needed. It wasn't long before I realized that the most important duty was one that was not a featured bullet in my position description, and that was to smile and greet each resident as I entered their home. Think for a moment, how it must feel to sit day after day in a "home" while being treated as a "patient." If taking a little extra care while making beds and chatting a bit with the residents brought them a little closer to home, well, it was the least I could do. One such resident was quite close to my heart. Agnes was a petite lady, with gray, thick hair and eyes that had long since retired, having lived a life of paying close attention to detail. Although Agnes could not see very well, she had a sixth sense in knowing who had entered the ro...