A Simple Bit of Fun

So here I am at the end of the semester. It's been challenging, and at times grueling but so worth it! Since I can't really share my whole experience with you (it's more of an internal thing, ya know) I figured I'd share at least one of the projects I had the most fun with this semester. 

One of the courses I took was a World Lit class with one of my favorite professors, Donneva Crowell. Her final assignment for us was a creative project. She asked us to put a different spin on a piece we've read through out the semester. I choose Gustave Flaubert's A Simple Heart (<--- that's a link to the full text by the way. I recommend a read through when you have the time).

To shed some light on my creative aspect of the story, there are two things you need to know:
1. The servant girl, Felicite, is incredibly lonely. She comes into the possession of a parrot named Loulou, upon whom she places all of her affection. This turns out to be beneficial for both her and Loulou before the end. It's truly a love story like no other.
2. There is a point in the story in which Loulou takes a little flight. Flaubert never reveals what happened to Loulou during his adventure. This is where my story fills in the gap.

So, I decided to write about Loulou's adventure. That's what you're about to read. I'm including my preface for a clearer picture of where I was aiming and in what voice I'm writing. NOTE: If you can manage to read it in a Spanish accent, well, it makes it all that much more entertaining. Enjoy! (or not, whatever). ;)



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Preface

In Gustave Flaubert’s A Simple Heart, we get a ton of details about Loulou the parrot and some of his crazy antics. But, we don’t know a thing about what happens to him the day he flies off. No one knows why Loulou laughs so hysterically at Monsieur Borais and there even seems to be some mystery surrounding how Loulou actually died. So, I decided to add a few parts to the story. I wanted to satiate my curiosity as to what happened on his adventure and add a few of my own suppositions as to the mysteries surrounding Monsieur Borais and Loulou’s death. However, I didn’t want to try to imitate Flaubert’s voice. I thought, instead, that Loulou could tell us the story himself.

First, I needed to get a feel for Loulou’s personality. I thought about it, about how his behavior was when we first meet him. After rereading his section of the story, I knew there was only one way to go with him. Loulou, in my mind, has to be a narcissistic little thing with a Latino accent and a passion for shiny things. I don’t think he’s adjusted well to going from a lavish, energetic house to a depressed one. I also think he misses his native forests, but I think that desire is fleeting. He’s so much more into being pampered and at the center of attention.

I also don’t think he appreciates the amount of care that Felicite gives him at first, but as per the story, he obviously matures after he returns from his little adventure away. Why? What happened to him that makes him return Felicite’s devotion in such a way as he does? And what makes him stay? Also, I had to wonder what happened to him after he died. Did he stay with her or did he move on? Well, you’ll need to read to see what my decision was there. But, it fits. I did my best to stay close to the details of the story, even mixing in some of the clues we get during Felicite’s search for him on the day he goes missing. It’s possible that Flaubert would be amused with my addition. Or not. Who cares? I had fun with it. I hope you like it, too.

Loulou: A Love Story

Or

Give Me the Bird

My name is Loulou. You may have heard of me. I’m kind of a big deal.

I once roosted with a Baron and his family. Oh, how they adored me. They even gave me my own negro. He was a neglectful servant though, always flitting off whenever little bells would tinkle. Tell me, what are bells compared to my melodious voice (SQUAWK)?  No matter how often I beat him with my wings and nipped his fingers when he cleaned my cage, he never got the hint. Good help is so hard to find.

Yes, life was good with the Baron. Well, except for the being caged part. Oh, and the travelling. Ugh! Seasick. My poor nerves. My poor feathers! I never molted so much as after a sea voyage. I swear I had more and more green feathers after every trip. But, I suppose I should be grateful. The last trip we took changed my life forever. The last trip we took brought me, eventually, to my Felicite.

Word came to the Baron that it was time to travel yet again. This time, I was not to go with them. This did not break my heart. I didn’t need any more green feathers. But, when my negro dropped me off at my new roost, I thought it was a joke. Me? In a crumbling place such as this? Oh, no no no! Impossible. Gone were my lovely girls who petted and cooed. Gone were the baron’s colorful and ever-changing flocks of people. Here, all seemed dull, brown. The faces were the same every day. I hate to admit a flaw, but I didn’t take well to this change of scenery. I was not so kind to my new family in the beginning. With the Baron, I was surrounded by colorful, vibrant, shiny things. But, here, no. No! This new mistress, Madame Aubain, (squawk!)? Boring! Ayi, all she did was mope around molting watery feathers from her eyes. No matter how I tried to entertain her, she ignored me. She paid no mind to my adorable antics. I began to suspect that she disliked me. And then, she proved me right by giving me to her maid. Her maid! The impudence! Ah, but it is a curse to be always right.

Don’t get me wrong. This turned out to be not such a bad arrangement for me in the end. Of course, I had no way of knowing it at the time. My handsome head was still full of what I had lost and the resentment of being in this new place. I was a beast to them, too. Although, I quickly learned there were advantages to my new prison: freedom. Freedom from my cage began with Felicite, the stout, frumpy, all-around brown maid. I could not believe it the first time she let me roam around her drab kitchen. Neither did she shoo me away when I sat on the wide window sill. It felt so good to stretch out my cramped wings. Little by little, I grew to see the benefit of this affection which Felicite had for me. I could get away with just about anything. For instance, every Sunday a group would come by to play cards with Madame Aubain. This excited me, for I love an audience. I began to perform for them, beating my wings and singing away. Ah, but they did not like my performances. This showed what little taste they had and, not to mention, it offended me. I took my revenge though. I sang louder. If they would not listen to me, then I made sure they couldn’t listen to each other either. HaHa! I am so devious (Squawk!). But, back to my beloved window, that beautiful, shiny window that became my refuge, my portal to fantasy and escape. I would spend hours sitting there on that sill, watching passersby during the day, admiring my handsome reflection at night, and dreaming of the days I used to fly free.

Then, one day, a flash of bright red streaked past my window. I had not seen such color in so long! I looked and looked for the color, but did not find it. The next day, I saw it again. Whoosh! Past my window it flew. For a week, this color teased me, drove me to madness. The curiosity was almost more than I could bear. It was about this time that Felicite began taking me out of doors and chaining me (a thin chain, she was not cruel) in the yard for exercise. By this time, Felicite had proven worthy of my affection to a degree. She was so doting, almost as doting as all five of my previous females and my negro combined. I could not help but begin to love her. But, I digress. This new development distracted me from searching for the source of the streak of color. More time in the yard meant more room to stretch my wings. I could almost fly. There was also the hilarious Monsieur Borais to amuse me. How hideous he was. And, from the strange stories my negro used to tell me from his homeland, I knew Monsieur Borais was not a man, but a parrot cursed to live as a man. He was wingless and clumsy and had an ugly voice (he still had his big beak and beady eyes though). Every time I saw him I laughed and laughed, which, of course, embarrassed him. I think he knew that I knew what he really was. The poor idiot, doomed to live like that. Eh, well, I suppose that’s what he gets for taking liberties with a witch doctor’s pet gorilla. But, again, I digress.

After a couple of days, I was less distracted with almost flying and I saw the streak of red again. This time, I discovered the source of the color and my curiosity was satisfied. Not just satisfied, but transformed into passion. It was there, across the dirt road, that I beheld the shapely pheasant with the loveliest breast I had ever laid my eyes on. She was magnificent, with her red and gold plumage, her slender neck and those long, sleek tail feathers (SQUAWK!). I called out to her, “I must be hunting treasure, because I’m digging your chest.” (I don’t know what that means. I’d just heard some of the sailors say it to ladies on one of our horrible voyages. It worked for them). Ah, but she did not even look my way. For two weeks, I called out to her. For two weeks, she ignored me. This only fueled my desire. I love a challenge. I began to plot an escape, but it turns out my plotting was unnecessary. The very next day, Felicite put me out in the yard without my chain. She turned around and - flap flap flap - I was gone, searching for my roja bonita!

I will admit that I heard Felicite calling me. But, the pleasure of flight, true flight, coursed through me. I felt a freedom I had forgotten. Loulou was back (SQUAWK!). With the wind in my face and the sun glinting off my glorious feathers, I had no doubt that the majesty of my dazzling blue and green would lead to victory in love. Resistance was futile. Over the rooftops and into the trees, I dipped and rolled on the current, though I also kept a keen eye out for my prize. It took me longer than expected to find my red beauty. When I saw her crouching in the tall grass of a field at the foot of a hill, I nearly fell from the sky for trembling. This was it! She was about to come face to face with the love of her life. I landed gracefully near her. I had not been this close to her before, she was much taller than I expected. But, I would not be deterred. I strutted the last few steps to her side. I fluffed out my feathers (all the better for her to adore me).

“Am I dead, Angel? Because, this must Heaven,” I cooed. She turned her willowy neck and her glassy eye fell upon me. She was drinking in the splendor of Loulou. Her slightly curved beak parted. She was about to profess her love and adoration, about to acquiesce to my persistent wooing. I was prepared to be gracious, to accept her surrender, to welcome her into the circle of my loving wings. I waited for her to tumble into a quivering heap at my talons. 

 “Monsiuer, go away. You will get us both killed.”

I was confused. Her voice was not as I’d imagined. Instead of smooth and lilting, it was more like whiskey mixed with smoke mixed with…bronchitis. But, no matter. A song, I decided. Yes, and so I began to serenade her.

“Shut up, idiot!” Her eyes were darting toward the sky.

“Idiot, yes. An idiot in love with you. Por favor, mi amour, tell me your name so I may sing it among the clouds.”

My red beauty rolled her eye. “Bruno.”

Bruno? Her name was Bruno? That is not a very ladylike name and I told her so. She said she was fine with that, considering she was a he (squawk?). I could not help feeling heartbroken, but it was a momentary set back. I was too in love to turn back now. But, before I could say another word, a flash of auburn came streaking from the sky, and a shriek split the still air. A hawk was barreling straight toward us (squawk)!

“Fly, Bruno, my love” I yelled, as I launched into the air to block the hawk’s attack. No one was putting their talons on her- er, him- but me.

The battle was short, and I was both valiant and victorious. I had managed to detain the hawk just long enough for Bruno to escape with his life and my heart. With his target departed. the hawk flew away and so did I. As the adrenaline of the battle wore off, I began to feel a stabbing pain under my left wing. I decided to rest atop Mere Simon’s shop and see what the matter was. I preened, searching for the wound I knew I would find. Sure enough, a small puncture wound. I hoped for the best, since it was not deep. But, one never knows what else that hawk had poked his talons into before he’d stabbed them into me. Only time would tell.

As I rested, I considered the events of the day, and pondered over my broken heart. Was freedom worth the pain and predation? (Squawk!) No way, Jose. I headed home. As I flew toward the courtyard of the drab manor house, I saw Madame Aubain and Felicite sitting in the yard. Felicite was a shambles, her slippers shredded, her face streaked with travelling dust and tears. She was crying over me. No one had ever cried over me before. The heart I had thought broken swelled in my chest as I landed on her shoulder. This was my home. This was my Felicite. This was my love.

I stayed by her side from that day on. She told me all her secrets. How she missed her Victor. How she missed her Virginie. Sometimes she made stories up, like that one about her fighting a bull. Haha-(squawk!). But, mostly she told me how much she loved me. Through it all, the pain under my wing worsened. I felt my vigor draining away bit by bit. One morning, I was feeling more poorly than ever. She thought it was because of the cold of winter. She set my cage next to the fire to keep me warm. The heat reminded me once again of the tropics and home. It was a nice thought to have in my head at my passing. Somehow, I stayed with her after. It must have been through the sheer desire of Felicite not allowing me to leave her as Victor and Virginie had. I watched as she took my corpse to the taxidermist. It seemed that to her I was still alive. She kept talking to me, petting me, cooing to me as she’d always done. I watched over her through all the years, guarding the soul of my friend ineffectively, but with love.

The day she died, she placed my tattered carcass on a festival shrine. I was so embarrassed (squawk), but I knew what it meant to her. She was so proud. When the time came for her to leave her own tattered carcass behind, mine was the first face she saw. I will always remember that smile.

Don't Fence Me In

Those who know me well know that I typically avoid initiating conversations about politics or religion. It isn’t because I fear the topics. It’s because there are so few truly open-minded people to discuss these things with. However, I have a hard time keeping my mouth shut when I see complete and utter stubbornness of minds on both sides of a sensitive subject. Many apologies to my “black and white” thinkers, but in some cases there are multiple shades of gray. This happens to be one of them.

It doesn’t matter where I go lately, the topic inevitably comes up. Whether people are for or against gay marriage, their opinions are loud, unyielding and devoid of any flexibility. Frankly, the intense amount of contention surrounding this subject is exhausting. The hurtful things I’ve witnessed (from both camps) on social networks and in my daily life has left me baffled and frustrated. I can’t comprehend the complete lack of respect on both sides of this towering fence. Why is there even a need for this fence at all?

Now, before I go any farther, there are two things you need to know about me. Consider them my disclaimer.

First, I am a Christian. I not only believe in Jesus Christ, I believe Him. He set a perfect example of tolerance, forgiveness and love that I try to follow each day. As a Christian I also believe that, according to God’s laws, homosexuality is not a natural part of the procreative plan.

Second, as a believer in love and in the gift of agency (man’s right to choose his own path) I find it difficult to judge the lives of others. I’ve done plenty of things in my life that others didn’t/don’t agree with and have always hoped that I’d be accepted by others based on the goodness in me. As a result, I try to reach out to all who cross my path with understanding and love, based on who they are not on whether or not I agree with their lifestyle. It isn’t up to any other being to decide their fate, especially not me. I have my own fate to captain, and I have my hands full. Compassion and tolerance are paramount in each of our lives. I believe every person should give, and deserves to receive, these two things.

Now on to the matter at hand which isn’t the subject of gay marriage itself, it’s the disturbing manner in which the subject is being handled. I’m sure some of my comments already have a few hackles up, but hear me out. Also, keep in mind that my opinions are based on my personal beliefs and experiences, nothing else.

First, to my conservative friends/family…my staunch supporters of traditional marriage…cool your jets people. I get where you’re coming from. But, I’m here to tell you that you can spout Bible verses all you want, just keep in mind that it will have little to no impact on those who have little to no belief in God. The chance you have of convincing them that you’re right and they’re wrong is about the same as the chance they have of convincing you that they’re right and you’re wrong. Contention in any form is of the Devil. It is the opposite of love, the opposite of acceptance, the opposite of peace. I’ve witnessed people saying some pretty vile things in regard to homosexuals and it completely horrifies me. It’s as if they’re speaking about the basest of animals, not their fellow human beings. If you truly believe we are all children of God, then you must realize that these people… these creative, loving, funny, generous people…are also His children and that they have a right to experience joy in their lives. Simply because you don’t agree with the sin doesn’t mean you shun the sinner. All people deserve to be accepted for who they are. In short… LOVE them as Christ does.

Now, to my liberal family/friends… my advocates of equality… y’all need to tone it down. Seriously. I get that you feel passionate about this cause. Considering it’s an emotionally charged issue, it’s no wonder. However, spitting venom back at those who believe that marriage should be between a man and a woman is not the answer. You’re only escalating the situation. Do you realize how hypocritical some of you are being? Force-feeding your position will only be met with resistance. You know I’m right. It’s the same reaction the conservative camp gets when trying to shove their ideals down your throats. Persecuting those who disagree with your position, saying they’re close-minded, accusing them of bigotry… uh, ‘scuse me? Pot meet Kettle. Do you even recognize that you’re doing the same thing they are? So they believe homosexuality is a sin. So what? They’re entitled to hold that belief, just like you’re entitled to disagree with it.  Since when has standing firm in one’s beliefs become wrong? Or is it only wrong when someone doesn’t stand firm in the same belief you hold? (and p/s this question applies to BOTH camps!) It seems to me that it might be time for some of you to re-evaluate how open-minded you truly are. In short, if you expect tolerance and equality from others, you need to be willing to march to the very drum you’re beating.

Seriously people, enough with the bickering. Whether you’re in the “We’re here. We’re queer. Get used to it” camp or the “Don’t hate. We’re straight. Deal with it” camp, the next generation is watching us. It is our responsibility to teach them to love, to teach them to accept people for who they are, not who they sleep with. We need to teach them that fences between people shouldn't be necessary. And, we need to teach them these things through our examples.   

OK, well…I’m sure I’ve thoroughly ticked some of you off. If that’s the case, maybe you should be asking yourself why that is. And, while I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, don’t expect an apology for what I've said. It won’t be coming. Ever. Upset or not, I hope that what I’ve said has at least gotten some of you thinking about your perspective and, more importantly, about how you’re dealing with the issue. Up until now, I’ve been relatively silent on the entire subject of equality for gays because, in truth, I’ve wrestled with this question for a couple of decades. Call me a fence-sitter if you like, but I see both sides. Maybe my own struggle has contributed to the scope of my perception, maybe not. I don't know.

What I do know, unequivocally, is this: color, race, creed, religion, sexual preference…these aren’t exclusionary factors to me. The people I accept into my life are loved for their personality, for their integrity, for their compassion and most of all, for their own capacity for goodness. No one is excluded from God’s love. Therefore, no one is excluded from mine. 

Fat Girl Problems

I am a fat girl.

No, don't try to soothe my ego. I know what I am. American society has beheld my size twelve derriere and dubbed me ‘fat’ because I don't fit into the size four to size six range of acceptability. And, like a good American citizen, I roll over and submit to my fate. No matter that I work out every day. No matter that I attempt to be careful to eat nutritious foods. No matter that I enhance my diet with vitamins and supplements to maintain and boost my health. No matter that I schedule and keep annual physical check-up exams. No matter at all.

I won't lie and say that I couldn't stand to lose some unwanted fat baggage. I won't lie and say that I always make healthy food choices. I won't lie and say that it is Krispy Kreme’s fault that I am addicted to doughnuts. I also won't lie and say that there's not a serious double standard in this country when it comes to societal concepts of beauty versus personal levels of self-worth and self-esteem. And, I will most definitely not lie and say that most of these types of advertising are aimed at young girls and women. Thank you, marketing executives and fashion gurus, for creating a social dilemma for the collective that we are ever hard-pressed to solve.

Some may argue that staying thin boils down to self-discipline and hard work. People who say this are typically skinny already and tend to take being thin for granted. They're the ones who will never agonize about gaining an ounce as they cry through a pint of ice cream after that nightmare break-up (or whatever else may have driven them to indulge). They are the ones who love shopping because they look good in the clothes that they try on. They will never understand what it's like to stare in disbelief at the reflection in the dressing room mirror and plunge into a depressed funk because that tiny muffin top has somehow burgeoned into a bag of bagels. They're the ones who just don't get it, and never will. I should know. I used to be one of them. My, how times have changed. And, let me tell you, in this case, the grass is absolutely not greener on the other side.

The reasons people feel socially unacceptable vary. However, the amount of pressure to conform to society’s ideal of beauty is relentless and comes at us from every direction. Television, radio and internet advertisements tell us that to be acceptable, we must be thin, we must have glossy manageable hair, we must have flawless skin, we must have pearly white teeth and above all we must wear the latest fashions and own the newest gadgets. And, when we do not, or cannot, conform to these ideals, there are a myriad of people just waiting to rip us apart from the scalp on down. Seriously, how can anyone bear to poke their heads out of their front (or even back) doors under that amount of scrutiny? Yet, we must, and we do, and we endure the best we can, usually by making out with a box of cupcakes. It's a vicious, never-ending cycle.

Whatever happened to encouraging people to appreciate and love themselves “as-is”? Was there an announcement that the food and fitness corporations and the fashion police have declared martial law? If there was, I must've missed it. How is it then that we have permitted them to gain such powerful control over the degree of our self-worth? Is it because we've allowed ourselves to be duped into thinking that there's only one type of beauty? Are we not responsible for developing the confidence and self-esteem needed to rise above the frivolous and shallow expectations of public approval? In fairness, we cannot wholly accuse others for our own part in feeling obligated to live up to pop culture’s standards.

You kind of have to wonder; are we just more comfortable pointing a finger of fault at companies who're trying to sell their products so they can keep their workers employed? Don't we share some of the blame? I mean, aren't we the ones buying, and therefore creating a demand for, these products? Uh, yeah. And, we're the ones who must bear the burden of how we feel about our reflection in the mirror. See, those skinny people aren't altogether wrong.

For many (not all), a little healthy eating and some regular exercise would go a long way. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not recommending this as a means to lose weight to conform, the exact opposite, in fact. I'm a firm believer in working toward getting what you want. If what you want is a solid sense of self-worth, the only one who can truly provide that for you is you. You see, several years ago, because of a health condition and some poor medication choices by my doctors, I ended up gaining about sixty pounds in about ten months’ time. I went from being a blissfully ignorant skinny girl to being amply huggable. I became depressed, and found myself plummeting into a shame spiral. Finally, I realized that in order to reverse the situation, I'd have to be the one to make the effort.

About two years ago (with a small recent break) I began working out regularly. I hate exercising. Hate it with. a. passion! But, I love feeling like I am doing something good for myself. I like the way my energy remains stable throughout the day. Unfortunately, exercise alone wasn’t doing the trick, as I'm also a big fan of eating. I love chocolate, pretty much any kind of junk food, actually. But, I also love grapes, and green beans and watermelon and apple slices. Making the switch from eating junk food regularly and veggies or fruits sporadically to eating veggies and fruits regularly and junk food sporadically has been a sacrifice. Again, though, the feeling that I am doing something to improve the situation has made the difference.

Now, you may be thinking ‘sure, after all of that she’s probably skinny again’. Hate to burst your bubble. While I AM more toned and firm, even after all of this time, I have yet to dip below a size twelve. And, if you think the effort is wasted, you wouldn’t be alone. That shame spiral is ever present and waiting with open arms to receive me.

The point I’m trying to make is this; if we, as women (and men) want to rise above the influence of popular culture and feel comfortable being who we are in the body we have right now, we must take a long look into that dreaded mirror and make a decision. We have to decide that those wrinkles are our wisdom manifesting. We have to decide that curly hair is just as desirable as straight hair (or vice versa). We have to decide that the world will not end if our teeth are not three shades brighter. We have to decide to accept ourselves for who we are today, then embrace it and love ourselves in spite of what anyone else may attempt to force us to believe. And then, we have to pass those lessons along to the future generations. Only in working, together, toward what we want – a solid sense of self-worth -and fighting our way through the ever-changing fads can we ever hope to conquer the self-defeating morals our society would have us bow to. Fat girls, unite!

Musings Of An Un-Math-letic Mind

I saw a T-shirt the other day. It said, “Dear Math, I am not a therapist. Solve your own problems”. That sentiment accurately sums up my feelings about math in general.

I have never been a fan of math. I am a lover of words, of the creative and artistic venue of writing. While some may argue that you can be creative and artistic with numbers, I really don’t care to hear the argument.

            Personally, I don’t see a need in my life for anything past basic math skills. I will never use algebra to balance my checkbook when simple addition, subtraction, multiplication and division will suffice. I don’t understand why it’s necessary for me to have to solve equations like “x+3-1=11” only to find that it would be just as easy to say 9+2=11. Seriously. Why all the cloak and dagger?

            Then there are fractions. OK, I concede that I use fractions in my daily life. I use half-cups and quarter-cups when baking scrumptious cookies or cakes. These fractions are useful to me.  Anything above and beyond that … not so much. I don’t see why the capability to divide or multiply complex fractions is necessary in my life. Why make things harder than they really need to be?

            My biggest peeve, however, are the word problems. Word problems are seductive. They offer a problem in such a way that entices me to pay attention. They offer a plot and a reason to be invested in the problem. Just to illustrate what I mean, here is a perfect example:

Billy has five shiny, red apples. Billy goes to a party and sees two pretty girls. One has blonde hair. One has brown hair. He gives half of his apples to the pretty blonde-haired girl. He then gives half of what he has left to the pretty brown-haired girl. How many apples does Billy have left?

I was with Billy right up until I needed to figure out how many apples he had left. It’s not that I can’t figure out how many apples he now has. It’s because I don’t care!

As I said, I am a lover of words. I am more interested in whether or not Billy had a thing for either of the girls, or in knowing if either little girl had a crush on Billy, too. Or in discovering if the little brown-haired girl was ticked when she found out that the little blonde-haired girl got more of Billy’s apples than she did. Did a cat-fight ensue? Did either girl ever give Billy their number or did he impart of his apples in vain?

For these very reasons, word problems are the cruelest joke math teachers can play on a creative mind. I do not see these words in lines of logic. I do not read them in a linear manner. My writer’s brain is trained to “read between the lines”, to see the drama that is not at first apparent. I feel the uncertainty and angst Billy is feeling when he approaches each little girl. I perceive his concern that his gift, and therefore he, may be rejected. I am invested in how the story will unfold. And then, SMACK! I’m expected to draw a solid conclusion based on the facts given. I am doomed to never know the answers to my many questions. So cruel!

It’s dreadful that my precious and beloved letters are re-purposed as “variables” in the math world. However offensive this may be to me, I can accept this as a necessary thing. Word problems, though, are nothing short of a travesty, an unforgivable affront to the literary-minded. Therefore, it is my firm opinion that word problems should be buried, sequestered deep in the recesses of abandoned quarries, like the bones of the plague-riddled dead in the catacombs of France and Italy. They should be laid to rest and never disturbed again.

This may seem harsh to all the math lovers out there. I do not begrudge you your love of numbers. Have at it, by all means. But, please, the next time a person like me says they “hate math” or that they “do not ‘get’ math”, remember what you have just read. Have some sympathy for the “un-math-letic” masses, for we are many. Oh, and keep your word problems to yourself.

Tweet Nothings

I am a social network addict. I’m not even kidding. And, I’m pretty sure that I’m not alone in this. I didn’t even realize that I have a problem until about three months ago. I had just returned home with two rented movies and I was all proud of myself because I’d never used one of those kiosk thingies before. As my husband slipped the movie into the player and readied it for our viewing pleasure, he turned to me and said, “You ready?”

“Just one sec,” was my reply, as I hastily tweeted that I was ‘no longer a Redbox virgin’. Considering that I’d wanted to see this movie in the theater and was now putting the start on hold, my husband logically asked me what I had to do that was so important. I told him. The look on his face was the epitome of the word ‘baffled’. “Seriously? You really needed to tweet that?” he asked. “Why on Earth would anyone care about that?” Um, ouch! But, his comment got me thinking. Was I missing something by having my nose buried in a laptop screen every day?

A couple of weeks later, I decided to go cold turkey. No social networks for a week. No Twitter. No Facebook. No GooglePlus. No MySpace. Ok, well, I don’t really do MySpace anymore. Who does really? (Oh, c’mon, be honest!) So, that one wasn’t a sacrifice. But, still. I was confident that it would be no big deal. Plus, I wanted to see how the “unplugged” version of my life was different from the “plugged in” version. How would removing myself from social media affect me?

The plan was to abstain from all social media from Monday morning until the following Sunday night. I asked my husband to change my account passwords and issued strict instructions not to divulge them to me until the said time. Of course, my pragmatic, IT-manager husband pointed out that all I needed to do to recover them was to click the little ‘Did you forget your password?’ link under the account information boxes (thanks, smart aleck). I told him I wanted no easy access to them, at which point he rolled his eyes (he does this a lot) and said, “Yeah, OK.” Humph! It was clear that his faith in my ability to resist this temptation would have made a grain of sand look like a planet. Oh, it was on like Donkey Kong. I cut my eyes at him, daring him to say something more. He simply shook his head and shrugged. With that, the challenge began.

Time flew by, or so it seemed. Immediately I noticed how much easier it was to focus on my school work (yes, I know I shouldn’t have social networks up during school time). A million times easier, in fact. And that left me time for other things. Laundry was folded and put away. Floors were swept and mopped. The bathroom glistened with freshly cleaned porcelain. The counters and kitchen table were cleared of clutter. Appliances were wiped down. Dishes got done directly after the consumption of a hearty, home-cooked meal. Oh, yeah, I cooked! I even called my mother. Things seemed to be going smoothly, and everything was falling into place. It felt great to show my husband that I could indeed do this and to discover that it wasn’t so difficult after all. Oh, the joy, the elation…the gloating rights! I felt compelled to share my celebratory mood with (and brag to) the world. After all, I’d made it, hadn’t I? I’d resisted the temptation for a whole … six hours?! Noooooooo!

It was then that the word ‘addict’ popped into my head, followed immediately by the thought that, Oh eM Gee this week is going to kill me, and then I’ll be dead and my husband will smugly roll his eyes at my coffin. And, oh crap, who would update my status or tweet about my untimely demise?! He wouldn’t, that’s for sure. Unacceptable. My only option was to grit my teeth and wade through the withdrawal.

You know that moment, hours or days after an argument, in which the perfect retort appears in your head and you wish you had a time machine to go back and deliver it, but instead, must live with the fact that this scathing, clever reply is impotent and useless now? Yeah. Now, apply that to all of the clever, cool things that pop into your brain that you update your status with, or tweet for all to see. That was my week. I literally had status updates and tweets flying through my brain and my fingers itched to click on that “forgot password?” link just so I could share these pointless little gems with my adoring (let me have my fantasy people!) public. Next, imagine the loss of all the validation that accompanies said clever, cool remarks from both friends and strangers and sometimes even your mom. I literally had the best. Week. Ever! And, no one would get to LOL with me over something stupid I had done. No one would hash tag me a #highfive for accomplishments I’d achieved. No one would know a thing about the awesomeness of my week. Well, except for my husband…and my mom and dad…and my friends. You know, the people I actually speak to, the people that really matter.

I will confess. I didn’t make it to my self-imposed deadline. I caved around noon on Saturday, earning myself another eye roll from the husband. An addict I remain (yes, I have Twitter up behind this as I write), but I learned two valuable lessons: One, I can survive without social networks, I just don’t want to. And two, no amount of accolades or attention from strangers will ever replace the comfortable and reliable dysfunction of family and friends.

#TheEnd