I Think I Might Be a Drug Mule

2 Feb

I think there’s something in the tissue boxes at work.

Yes, I know – tissues.  But I mean something else.  Something…better.

The custodian on my floor – let’s call her Marge – always tiptoes into my office, looks behind her to make sure she isn’t being trailed, and slips me a new box of tissues, telling me to “put them in my drawer”, all wide-eyed and crazy haired, as if hot off a chase.  I keep trying to get out the words “no thank you I have plenty”, but  there is a secrecy to our exchange — a sort of hushed urgency that makes me feel as if I’m missing something.

Am I missing something?

Sitting at my desk in the carpeted cages of the corporate jungle, I simply think.  I think so hard and so long about tissues that I worry I might say something ridiculous and tissue-related if someone calls and I have to answer the phone.  And yet try as I might, I could come up with no logical reason for why Marge conducts routine restocking in such a manner.

Let’s consider some possible explanations:

1) Tissues are harder to come by in the corporate jungle than I had anticipated and I take for granted Marge’s love and consideration for me.

2) Marge doesn’t actually work for the company but prefers her self-constructed reality to that of her real life and risks discovery each and every day if not careful.

3)  There is a valuable item, such as drugs or diamonds, hidden in the tissue boxes and I am a pawn in Marge’s illegal activity.

4) Marge doesn’t care for me and is stealing one box of tissues every two days from the supply closet in order to build up my holdings with the intention of outing me in front of Corporate HR.

5) Marge suffers from short-term memory loss and doesn’t remember a tissue exchange happening.  Ever.

I would dig to the bottom of the box to find the source of secrecy, but I had a bad experience with a tissue box conjecture once.  I was unaware that Kleenex had developed a signal to consumers wherein the last few tissues were peach as a warning that the tissue box needed to be replaced.  As a result, I ran around work pulling out funny-colored tissues and exclaiming that I was going to write the company for the mixup and demand a refund.

So you can see how I’m wary of any hasty tissue-related assumptions.   If one public tirade about a tissue box didn’t tip off the coworkers that I’m slightly unstable, I’m certain that a second will.  But I’ve got a full drawer of tissue boxes and I’m going to have to start piling them up in the cabinet if she doesn’t knock it off soon.

Unless, of course, the boxes are full of little baby diamonds and Marge is using me as her mule.

Which would be awesome. ♣

 

Thanks for voting yesterday, guys! The poll is open until Tuesday, when I will reveal the winning design and announce how to get in the drawing for a free t-shirt to be sent directly to your hands.  I promise it’s painless.  

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Free T-shirts! No, Seriously.

1 Feb

Happy Lollipop Tuesday!  If you still aren’t sure what that is, I have to admit that I’m just slightly disappointed in you.  But I have hope that you’ll click that handy dandy link at the top right corner and relieve yourself from this wretched confusion.

Today’s Attempt: Designing a T-Shirt.

I’ve always wanted to go online and create something.  I sometimes fiddle around, but I don’t ever actually commit to anything.  I’ve designed bookbags, candles and protein bars with just a clickity click click.  But this time, I had a purpose.  I was committed.

I made a few t-shirt ideas for the blog.  Hey, I’m not a t-shirt artist.  But that’s what Tuesdays are all about.  And here’s the deal: take the time to tell me what you think.  Let me know which one/s (you can choose more than one) you like.  If you hate them all and think I suck, there’s a spot to tell me that too.  And if you have a better idea, go for it.   After I’ve gotten all the votes in (in one week), I will announce the winning t-shirt and give a few away to readers.

That’s right: Free T-Shirts for Readers. Try not to wet yourself.  It’s going to be okay.

So check out the gallery below.  Simply click on an image to enlarge it and then vote below when you’ve made up your mind.   If you don’t like any of them and have an idea, feel free to comment below. 

 I’ll explain how readers will be chosen when I announce the winning t-shirt, so you don’t have anything to worry about right now except voting.    Sound good?  Sounds good. ♣

 
 
 
 
 

 

Photograph images on T-shirts are property of lmphotography, based in Pittsburgh. Fine Art. Portraits, Headshots. Events. For more information, email laurenkatemorrison@gmail.com

Hey! Wanna snag other free stuff?  Check out Unillu.com, which is giving out cool art freebies all week!  You can win a custom notebook, print, or even a free consultation.  Crazy beans, right?  Go to the  Unillu page on Facebook and check out the details. 

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If I Were a Dude, Dude.

31 Jan

Being a woman sucks.

Sometimes I think about how awesome it would be to be a dude.  I could leave hair where hair grows, I could use a body wash that is also a shampoo, I could have U.U.S.S. and not have a care in the world.  I could eat as much as I want and keep everything I need in a wallet instead of an enormous hobo bag that gives me back problems.  I could put my car in the garage without calling a mechanic in the family just to make sure I’m not getting ripped off.   And (my favorite) I would never, ever worry about what to wear.

Not to mention, I wouldn’t have to deal with the once-a-month junk.  I wouldn’t even have to  think about it.  In no way would it affect my daily life and I could use the money I save on ibuprofen, pads, and tampons to start my own small business.

Then again if I were a dude, I don’t think I could deal with women.  I’m really not a fan of them and I can’t imagine having to put up with one for life.  If you’d like to know more, you can check it out here, in a blog post written long, long ago in a part of my brain far, far away (disclaimer: back then I was…”more free” with my word choice).

Sometimes I make Dave dinner or give him a foot massage just because I can’t fathom how he puts up with me.   Because as much as I may harbor dude-like tendencies, I am undeniably woman in my aggressive and unpredictable mood swings, my ability to take stress from one category of my life and allow it to bring down the wrath of Hades in another completely unrelated category, and in my inability to stop myself from cooing and giggling at puppies.

In my defense, there is a startling amount of adorable puppies in my neighborhood.

I must also admit that I am deeply disturbed by the idea of owning a penis.  Truly, deeply disturbed.  And I don’t mean because I was born as a woman and would find the sex change unnerving (which I would), but rather that I have no idea what men do with them, where they put them in their day-to-day tasks, and how they manage to not squish them.  I can only imagine the complete sense of imbalance I would have for the entire day once I’ve made my choice to dress to the left or the right.  That seems like a long-term decision to me and the pressure of commitment each morning would be too much for me to bear.

Also, Dave once said penises are “like a tail but in the front.”  and I will forever carry that deeply disturbing thought with the image of my conversion to dude-ism.

So yesterday’s time was wisely invested in the art of couch-sitting.   I call it my “Jabba the Hut” look. Because it was one of those beautiful times in a woman’s life where no amount of preventative maintenance for either my body or my mind could stop me from being a gigantic, painstricken, cranky, leaky mess.  Luckily, the laptop offered a sort of radiating warmth and helped ease the pain of womanhood pulsating through my lower abdomen.  And when I tired of the Interwebz, I replaced its warmth with that of a cat.  Because it’s one of their many uses and a great way to pay me back for all their freeloafing.

So much for my awesome times in my awesome fort while Dave is away.   Blasted ovaries. ♣

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My Adult Blanket Fort (G)

30 Jan

I’ve been abandoned.

Dave, in search of a simpler and more noble life in the trees, has finally gotten in the car and now pushes westward in search of the animal within.

Actually, he just went to Ohio to hang out with an old friend.   And until he decides to return, the entire apartment is under my sole command.

Before he left, I requested a last-minute stop at the grocery store for cat food and milk.  By the time I made it to the exit, I had acquired Moose Tracks ice cream, a frozen pizza, and  box of Kraft Deluxe Mac and Cheese.    When Dave questioned my actions, I simply replied that I was going to be home alone.  

It was in this moment that he realized for the very first time the role he plays in my life. 

I admit entirely that if left to my own devices, I would someday be discovered beneath a pile of dirty clothes and pizza boxes, sleeping in a cave I have made for myself and my cats adorned with strange prayer beads and craft paint.   Sadly, it would only be my family who comes looking.  And sadly, they would not be surprised.

Hopefully, Dave won’t be gone long enough for this to evolve. 

My first agenda item is definitely a fort.   But not one of those little pathetic forts under a table you make when you’re a kid.  I want an adult fort.  I want a fort that says I pay my own bills and have my own apartment and I can string up sheets and hang lights and take over the entire living space for my own ridiculous agenda any time I want.

This could be the end of me.  I’ll go from not socializing to not even going into the apartment hallway to get my mail.  I have absolutely no good reason to leave my adult fort.  Especially when I have enough pizza, ice cream, and macaroni and cheese to keep me alive for at least a week.

Sometimes I wonder if my lifestyle is acceptable.   And also, I thank the Lord Almighty that I don’t have kids because I’m sure they wouldn’t let me build this fort the way I want to.

If I don’t post tomorrow, please send someone in after me. ♣

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Devil Candy: My Descent into Worthlessness

29 Jan

Movies always make me want to do ridiculous things.

I saw True Grit last night and immediately left the theater thinking I should really know the proper method for extracting venom from a snake bite.  I’d hate for someone to die because I don’t suck it out the right way.

Sometimes I play the ending of Live Free or Die Hard over and over in my mind wondering if I would be able to work up the courage to shoot through my own body and into a terrorist’s in order to gain the element of surprise and have an epic win. 

The worst offender by all counts is The Notebook, which was singlehandedly responsible for me breaking up with my high school boyfriend.  Well, that and he was a weak speller. 

I just can’t be with a weak speller.

But I recognize this hold that movies have over me and have taken the necessary measures in my life to avoid disaster.  My Netflix queue is a very carefully chosen art.  Watching too many movies within a certain theme can lead to some seriously bad life decisions.   Unfortunately, Dave is just as easily inspired by them.  I accidentally followed up Into the Wild with The Last of the Mohicans last week and I’ve been spending the last two days trying to convince him not to leave society for a simpler, more noble life in the trees. 

My queue is not the only thing that pressures me.  In fact, I have a very strained relationship with Netflix overall.  At first I invested in it because I only get basic cable and can rarely justify spending 20 hard-earned American dollars to go see a movie.  It seemed like a good, sound investment.  And at first, I admit that it was.  I am a Netflix watching machine.  It comes in the mail, Dave and I watch it regardless of whether or not we’re in the mood, and we send it right back.   I can chew up and spit out about 10 discs in a month.

The real problem is Instant Netflix (let’s call it Devil Candy).   Devil Candy is like a fun bonus feature that you get for having a membership.  For no extra fee, you can go online and watch all sorts of movies, cartoons, and TV shows.  Sometimes there are a bunch of old stupid ones that nobody cares about, and sometimes you’re nicely suprised by how fast something relatively new is available.

When I first started Devil Candy, I had to put a disc in my PS3 in order to access its mystical wonders.   Sometimes, this was enough to prevent me from partaking in its pleasures.  Because regardless of how much I like a good movie, it’s probably still not enough to make me get up from the couch when I’m really comfortable.

Unfortunately, Netflix later announced that the disc was no longer needed and that Devil Candy was available simply by turning on my PS3…which has a remote I can use to start it.  My life has been a downward spiral ever since. Last week I stayed up one night and watched 18 back-to-back episodes of Arrested Development. 

Notice this is not a “we” scenario.   See, Netflix started as a way to have a cheap date indoors with the love of my life.  Ever since Devil Candy came out, it’s just me curled up on the couch pumping out as many episodes as I can before Dave returns.  It’s a sinful, self-indulgent parade of worthlessness and it must be stopped.

Then again maybe not.  After all, I’m going to have to have something to do while he’s out in the wild, living in an old VW bus and fighting to stay alive as the Last Mohican. ♣

Image above is property of THE MICO, an awesome digital cartoonist.  His works can be found at DeviantArt.com by clicking the image above, or you can stroll on over to his blog.  Give him  some lovin.

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Pajama Jeans Don’t Fool Me

28 Jan

 

I don’t trust Pajama Jeans.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all about comfort.   But there’s something about charging me $39.95 for a pair of jeans that you’re simultaneously associating with both “designer” and “pajamas” that I’m just not okay with.   

Infomercials may suck me in just as much as the next guy, but my suspension of disbelief does have limits. 

Even more annoying is knowing that the company pays a pathetic amount per pair (denim/cotton blend = cotton) and only jacks the price up to $39.95 because they know that we think they must be worth the money if they cost just as much as a decent pair of jeans on sale.   Right now in a neighborhood near you, someone is on their way to a sale at GAP or AE and thinking maybe I should just try those Pajama Jeans.  They cost the same amount but they feel like pajamas!  And that really irks me.

Furthermore, if you have your brain screwed in properly when you check out their website (3rd column under “Value”), you’ll notice that they offer to throw in a free crew neck t-shirt and claim that the package deal is worth $100.00.  Okay so that’s 100 smackos minus the $39.95 for the magical pajama pants of luxury and freedom.  Are they seriously claiming that the free crew neck cotton t-shirt costs $60.05 under other non-infomercial deal circumstances?  It must look like a designer t-shirt but be as comfortable as…a…t-shirt.  Double Yoo Tee Eff.

Now don’t get me wrong; I’ve never tried Pajama Jeans.  I’ve never even seen them on a real live person. My disgust for Pajama Jeans is akin to my disgust for the Snuggie.   It has something to do with the stupid name and the offer to solve a problem that isn’t really a problem.  If you’re cold, put on a sweater.  If you want to wear pajamas, wear pajamas.  Money saved.

Well, that and the fact that I tend to judge things harshly and from a distance.  I hated Garden State for 5 years until I sat down one day and realized I’d never actually seen it.    I admit this is a flaw.

Let it be known that I am not against all Made for T.V. products.   If you’ve read my blog or known me for any significant amount of time, you know that one day I will invent something that will pay for me to retire at a ridiculous age so that I can blog, do theater and be a crazy cat lady without being harrassed by bill collectors.  In a way, infomercial products resonate deeply with me.  Just not stupid ones.

Bare Minerals, for example, is a smart product with a reasonable claim and its promises were not sold to America with black and white melodramatic recordings and steroid-jacked TV announcers, but by a sensible woman presenting what she thought was an improvement to an outdated makeup staple. 

There’s a dissertation of some sort to be written here.  Maybe instead of spending my life hunting the million dollar idea, I should just write a guide on how to sell your million dollar idea.

Is this my million dollar idea?

Mmm…probably not… that’s what I thought about Oscar the Elephant and he still isn’t getting any airtime. ♣

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The Underwear Made Me Do It.

27 Jan

It wasn’t until 5:06 pm yesterday that I realized I wasn’t wearing one, but two pairs of underwear.

I noticed it as I was getting changed from my work clothes into my walking-home-clothes and stood in the handicapped stall (the executive suite of the bathroom world), staring in utter disbelief.  How could I have gone all day with 2 pairs of underwear and not noticed? 

I visited the restroom numerous times yesterday thanks to my recently enacted boycott of Starbucks and my tendency to fill the void with Diet Coke.  After all that pulling down and yoinking up, you’d think I’d have experienced some slight discomfort or noticed that I was actually grasping two layers of fabric instead of one.  I blame the mind-numbing nature of the corporate machine.

Even more mind boggling is that I took a shower yesterday morning and not the night before, which means that I didn’t change from pajamas into my work clothes.  I was buck naked, put on a pair of underwear, did my makeup, and put on another pair of underwear. 

I like to walk home from work most of the time because 1) I’m fat and it’s good for me and 2) It clears my mind and helps me flick the switch from Work Jackie (a terrible beast that froths at the mouth and is almost unrecognizable to Dave) to Regular Jackie (marked by strange quirks, most notably an affinity for self-expression through cartoon voices).    My favorite part of the walk is the large bridge that sits high above a series of winding creeks and bike trails, partly because it’s beautiful to look down and see the paths made through the stark white snow, and partly because the thrill of contemplating the jump makes my veins jump in excitement.  Not because I want to kill myself, but because there’s something so intriguing about imagining the fall downward.  I would never do it, but I have to admit that I stand there staring for an unhealthy period of time.  I’ve considered several times going skydiving to help satisfy this nagging feeling, but the idea scares the bajeezus out of me.

I am an onion with beautiful, nonsensical layers upon layers.

And so on this particular day, I found myself staring at a long way down and readily equipped with a newly discovered extra pair of underwear.   Which, of course, made me want to put them on over my pants and stand on the railing of the bridge with my hands on my hips, wind blowing my hair toward the traffic that was bound to crash at the sight.

But I only released my grip on the rail and trudged onward with my regret.

This morning, I tucked an extra pair of underwear into my bag.  And if you’re on a certain bridge at a certain time of day, you just might see a superhero. ♣

Image above belongs to nataliedee.com, where you can buy cool t-shirts featuring her quirky pictures.  Click on the image and browse away.  Or check out her blog. She’s kind of a big deal. 
 
 

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10 Reasons You Should Give Obama a Break

26 Jan

Last night, President Barack Obama delivered the State of the Union address.   Today, millions of Americans will attack him.    And  so today I present to you a common-sense guide entitled:

Reasons You Should Give Obama a Break

1) The man spends his workdays genuinely attempting to solve issues for not only America, but the world.  Big things.  Things like immigration, foreign policy and international relations.  Things like education, the economy, job growth, and sustainable energy.  Now think of what’s on your daily to-do list.  I don’t know about you, but some days I have a hard time just convincing myself to take a shower.

2) Chances are, he’s not the one you should be mad at.  It isn’t just the President who runs the country, folks.  He’s just one branch of a three branch system.  And by the way, we vote for those people.  Well, kind of.  Quite frankly our voter turnout is pretty pathetic.  About 30% of Americans don’t even bother.  Malta rocks a 95% turnout.  Malta! Do you even know where that is?!  And for non-presidential elections, that number is even more frightening, in spite of the fact that it’s our local legislatures who make the most difference in our daily lives.

3) He’s just one guy.  Yes, a big important guy that we expect to perform when we put him in office.  But one guy nonetheless.  It takes an entire government to make legislation.  Even if Obama agrees with every single belief and agenda that you do, he is unable to get those things accomplished without the help of others.  And those others tend to argue.  A lot.

4) We have a lot of problems.  And we can only work on so many at one time.  Yes, immigration needs addressed.  Yes, we need better education and a higher percentage of high school graduates.  Yes, we absolutely need sustainable energy and jobs and infrastructure and lower national debt and on and on and on.  Unfortunately, we can only do so much at once.  Think about all the things you need to improve about your life and all the things on your to-do list.  Aren’t you incredibly overwhelmed and amazingly ineffective if you go at them all instantly and with equal fervor?  Now increase the urgency on them by 1000%, add millions of people who think you should start their action item first, and only give yourself 4 years (minus campaigning) to accomplish all of them.

5) He has an incredibly difficult job.   Have you ever considered that in the midst of all this, he’s just a human?   He’s just a dude.  A regular dude trying to solve the problems of an entire country and somehow find time to be with his family.  Every single thing he does is scrutinized.  Even his iPod playlist.  That’s right: We got on Clinton for sex in the Oval Office, and we go after Obama for his affection for Lil Wayne and Nas.  

6) He has to know a lot of stuff.  Because we pretty much expect him to know everything, don’t we?   Think about how much you paid attention in your Civics, World History, and Politics classes.    Everything you ignored you expect him to know. 

7) He can’t fool around.  If he doesn’t do what the President is expected to do, no one else can step up and complete the task for him.  Think of all the things you put off at work.  Think about the time you spend browsing on the Internet or checking your phone or having a headache or being cranky.    Think about the tasks you are assigned that sit on the back burner or hide in a drawer or you convince someone else to do.  A lot of those things just simply aren’t options when you’re the leader of an entire nation.

8 ) He can’t stutter.  How are you in front of crowds?  How about big ones?  How about big ones full of important people, some of whom hate you before you even speak your mind?   The number one phobia in America is still public speaking, and that typically refers to speaking up in small crowds, standing in front of auditoriums, or simply stating ideas aloud for criticism.   Now think about all the words you mispronounce, the pressure you feel when you have to answer a tough, unexpected question, and how difficult it is for you to write a speech.  You don’t expect him to have those problems.

9) Americans aren’t doing much to help.  Well, some are.  Are you?  When you were upset about health care reform (either its enactment or its repeal), did you complain to your friends and neighbors or did you call your representative?  If you think illegal immigrants should get the boot, have you done any sort of research to realize what that entails? Have you come up with any ideas? Because I don’t know if you’ve been listening, but the President has been asking for ideas ever since he entered the office. 

10) No, really – Americans aren’t doing much to help.  Not just with ideas, but with doing our part.  Volunteer locally.  Donate or rally for causes you support. Go get some exercise and help cut down your state’s disgusting obesity rate (which is hanging at above 20% unless you’re from Colorado or D.C.).  Pick up a piece of litter.  Recycle.  Don’t drive somewhere if you can walk there.  Help someone.  Encourage others to do the same.  We’re all suppose to be trying to make things better, not just staring at a bunch of old farts on Capitol Hill and waiting for one of them to turn into our nation’s fairy godmother.  ♣

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Ice, Ice, Baby

25 Jan

Dun dun dun digg-a dun dun.
Happy Lollipop Tuesday!  If you’re still unclear about how awesome Tuesdays on thejackieblog are, check out my handy dandy new page on the top, titled “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?”  Welcome to the party.  Sit down.  Have a beer.
 
I have had the nagging desire to go ice skating since I first moved to the city to go to college.   Being the antisocial, anti-change, anti-courageous dumpling that I am, I’ve never been able to muster the mojo to go.  It’s been 5 years.
 
But hey – there’s nothing like the pressure of Freshly Pressed and some serious new traffic to turn on the heat.  So last night at 8pm, I waddled myself out onto a large, intimidating slab of ice.
 
I’m slightly alarmed at how easily the general public is allowed to strap on a pair of thin steel blades and go gallavanting on a manmade ice pond.  I feel as if some sort of training is in order.  Or a permit. 
 
At least a tutorial on how to put the skates on.  I consider myself to be a generally intuitive person.  Rental Ice Skates, however, are not intuitive.  To be frank, they’re more like medieval torture devices than ice skates.   Dave, concerned about my ability to ice skate when I can barely demonstrate balance with sneakers in the cereal aisle, decided it was best for my safety to make sure I was strapped in good and tight.  Something about ankle safety.  I couldn’t really tell you; I was focusing on my newly acquired vice grips and the lack of blood going to my toes.
 
Donning my bright blue slippers of death, I slowly inched toward the gladiator’s arena.
 
And I mean inched.  Like a one-legged penguin.
 
When I finally arrived to the ramp, I was glad to see that there were very few people partaking in the hidden joys of ice skating that particular evening.  What I wasn’t glad to see was that they all appeared to be Olympians.
 
People were skating in circles, backward, forward, in couples, legs in the air, speed skating… it was a jungle out there.  A big, scary, icy jungle of doom.  And I was right in the thick of it, waddling.
 
I started out slow.  Mostly because the majority of my brain power was replaying videos of Nancy Kerrigan in my head in beautiful tiny skater lady dresses and sparkly tights (and larger than average nostrils).   How could she…how could anyone be graceful in this getup? 
 
Dave was a champ.  He was the third wheel to my tricycle and he lovingly pretended that he didn’t know what he was doing because he knows how hard it is for me to suck so terribly at new things.  But when I pulled him every which way so that I weebled and wobbled but wouldn’t fall down, I got the nagging feeling that he was no beginner.
 
My suspicions proved true when, after I’d thrown in the towel, he took a few laps on his own, quickly, balanced, and even doing a tight little spinny thing to get to the carpeted ramp.
 
Damn actors.
 
I really did stick at it, and for that I can say I’m proud.  I started at a firm, slow waddle and holding onto Dave for dear life.  I finished unattached, at a decent speed, and slightly balanced.   I’d say I was a level 1 when I started and when I finished I was a solid level 3.
 
I’m so sorry about those darn Dungeons and Dragons references.   They just creep up on me.
 
For some reason I got it in my head that I couldn’t truly say that I had experienced ice skating unless I experienced falling.   But, scared to death to fall because I’m as fragile as Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas (sans sewing skills), I couldn’t just make it happen.  It had to happen naturally.
 
And it did.
 
I’ll be sporting a minor limp today at work, due to the massive and super awesome wipeout I had in the center of the rink. 
 
So it’s official: I can cross this one off my bucket list.  Five years of fear was conquered by one fairly daunting subscriber base.   Wow…Who knows what the pressure might drive me to do by week 52.  ♣
 
 

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I Blame Old People

24 Jan

I’m convinced that the world would be a much safer place to live in if old people didn’t have cell phones.

Or maybe just less annoying.

Listen, I’m really sorry to have to be the one to say this because making fun of old people supposedly shortens your life expectancy, but I’m willing to take one for the team.

I constantly hear people complain about “these kids and their cell phones” on the road, in conversation,and at the dinner table.  And I certainly agree that unfortunately technology develops and improves faster than the rate of our etiquette.  Remember how long Facebook was out before we all collectively decided it just wasn’t okay to run around poking people or plastering personal information of an embarrassing or degrading nature on each other’s walls?  And we’re just finally getting to the point where we are pressuring people to stop posting personal, individual-related, emo status updates. 

So I understand.  I really do.  I don’t like a gum-chomping, oblivious teenage cell phone driver any more than the next guy.  But I have to admit that when I look around on the roads, I see a lot more old people doing it.

When I’m stuck behind a car that isn’t hitting the gas within 3 seconds of a green light, it’s not always a youngin in the front seat.  And when I’m out in social situations, it isn’t just the kiddos who are pulling out their cell phones in the middle of conversations. 

 I was attempting to cross the road to my house the other evening and spotted an older woman in a minivan full of children (presumably her own) approaching an intersection with her texting phone propped up on the steering wheel, eyes fully locked on the keyboard.

I’ve also heard far too many times that “these kids” constantly google things on their phones when in the middle of a conversation.  And that is definitely true.  I’m not really sure how it’s considered a flaw to want to end a debate quickly with the introduction of fact, but that’s another issue entirely.  The point is that we aren’t the only ones.

Dave and I had the pleasure of a few friends visiting us this weekend, one of whom was a baby boomer and came with his iEverything in tow.   Within the course of three hours, I witnessed him walk around my house scanning the barcodes off of random products in order to demonstrate an app’s ability to find the lowest price available in the local market for that item.  He also used his iPhone to google something and end a slightly charged debate about the date of Leslie Nielsen’s death.

And when we were at dinner, he couldn’t resist scanning the barcode on his beer bottle.  You know, just to see.

So stop blaming us.  Because as much as cell phones may be a product of our generation, we are not solely responsible for bearing the social and safety foibles that result from it.  We all are.  And for every kid who thinks they can eat fast food, drive stick shift, and text their buddy at the same time, there is an old fart attempting to read a text from her best friend while running through an intersection with a van full of kids.

And don’t get me started on the inappropriate things that old people post on their children’s walls.

So hey – I’m not solely blaming old people.  I’m just blaming them enough to balance out the blame that has been thrown onto young people’s shoulders all these years.    All of us are very excited about the cool things we can do with mind-bogglingly tiny gadgets.  And we are all very excited to explore their possibilities at all hours of the day regardless of whether it is a social faux pas or a safety hazard to those around us.

So let’s just stop pointing fingers and start spending our time updating our rules of etiquette.  Because I think we could all benefit from agreeing on a few things.  Let’s start with agreeing on how we’re all to blame. ♣

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