The Power of Numbers

I woke up this morning and did what I usually do in the morning, checked my blog for any activity. The first thing I noticed was that my visitor counter was missing! I was horrified, baffled, and a little panicked. What happened to it? How could I get it back? I eventually calmed down enough to notice that my distress was way out of proportion to the situation. Analyzing my reaction, I realized I was feeling almost a sense of loss. I knew I could replace the counter, but when it went *poof* it took all my site stats with it. I didn't like that fact one little bit.

And that made me stop and ponder.

Why was that little counter so important to me? I'll tell you why. It was important because it was one of the measuring sticks I used to reassure myself that people both in and out of the blogging community thought I had something to offer. It affirmed that I was contributing something. It made me feel good about myself, my writing, and my ability to entertain. That's a lot of responsibility for one little site counter, isn't it?

And it's a telling insight into my personality. I needed those numbers. I needed the comfort they gave. Every time those magical numbers registered another visitor I felt a small thrill of renewed confidence in myself. That's powerful stuff. But it also seemed a little sad when I thought about it. To be so caught up in a number feels so shallow, somehow. I don't think I'm alone in this one, though, am I? The fact that they MAKE such counters indicates that others use the same sort of measuring stick.

We have so many ways to judge ourselves, don't we? The power of numbers to affirm or condemn is amazing to me. Life is not lived on a rating scale, but it surely seems we embrace that type of thinking more often than not.

When a baby is born it is examined and labeled with an APGAR score that quantifies the baby's overall health. I remember feeling an absurd pleasure when my daughters were declared 10's on their APGAR. I did something right. I produced a healthy baby. Yea me. The power of numbers begins that early.

As we grow and mature we often remain captives to this same power of numbers. Think about it.

• Test scores shape how we, and others, view our intellectual capacity. IQ tests results are so powerful in their ability to affirm or destroy that many schools won't disclose them to the student or parents of the student tested.
  
  
• How many Valentine's Day cards did Jimmy get? How many roses came in the bouquet Steve gave Sharon? How many minutes did Jane spend composing that love sonnet for Jeremy? How many dates have you had in the past three months, Carla? Or even...How many visits did you make to your ailing grandmother, Karen? How often did you tell your daughters you love them this week? How often did you let that someone special know you were thinking of them? We measure our romantic and relational worth by numbers.
  
  
• What cup size are you, ladies? Or what is your cup size, for that matter, men? How many pounds can you lift? How many miles can you run? What size are the jeans you put on every day, folks? What does the scale tell you when you step on it in the morning? We measure our physical desirability and fitness, or lack thereof, based on the power of numbers.
  
  
• How many bank accounts do you have? How many cars? How big is your diamond? How many credentials can you tack on the end of your name? How many awards have you received? How many promotions? We often measure our level of success based on the power of numbers.
  
  
• How many books do you own? How many music CDs? How many pets? Pairs of shoes? Children? Friends? Lovers? We amass people and things, and the more we have, the better we feel about ourselves. All because of the power of numbers.
  

Are we really so shallow? No, I don't think we are. We're human. And being human, we crave proof of our worth. Only the very confident can easily ignore the power of numbers to affirm or condemn. At some time, in some area, most of us fall prey to needing outward measurements to reassure us. And sometimes we use the power of numbers for the purpose of self-condemnation. And therein lies the danger.

The truth of who we are can't be quantified so easily or cheaply. And it shouldn't be. Not by others, and not by ourselves. We're complex, astounding works in progress.

I'd like to tell you that I'm not going to reinstall my visitor counter. I really would. But I'm one of those works in progress, too. But maybe someday I'll get there. One step at a time. One scary step at a time.

The power of the numbers. Amazing.

Pathways Beyond

Before Dad got sick, I was a volunteer grief counselor for our local Hospice organization. I also served on their Care Team, a group of volunteers who sit with actively dying people when family and friends can't be there. The things I learned about the human spirit, and the experiences I had while working within the Hospice community changed me profoundly. Some day I'll share my stories with you, if you're interested. I'm so grateful that I had a chance to learn that death is something that can be surrounded by love, dignity, grace, and peace.

I will eventually go back to my volunteer work, but it's only been six months since my Dad's death. I'm still experiencing my own grieving process. I need some time to heal. But I WILL go back, because I can think of almost no higher calling in my life than serving those who are facing the final part of their earthly journey and the loved ones they will leave behind.

Anyway, the Hospice organization that I work with publishes a monthly newsletter called Pathways for Grief and Loss. In this month's issue there is a lovely poem that I'd like to share. The author is unknown, but as you can see, not unknowing.

We trust that beyond absence
there is a presence.

That beyond the pain
there can be healing.

That beyond the brokenness
there can be wholeness.

That beyond the hurting
there may be forgiveness.

That beyond silence
there may be a word.

That beyond the word
there may be understanding.

That through understanding
there is love.

Beautiful, isn't it? And so hopeful. All things in time. All things in time.

If you or someone you know is experiencing a season of grief and loss, whether for a loved one, a circumstance, a dream; any type of loss is a loss, please share this poem with them if you feel it's appropriate.

Introducing Miss Cranky Pants

No, I'm not suffering from PMS. THAT would be too easy! Pop a couple of Midol you're back in happy land. No, it's not PMS I'm struggling with. I'm struggling with LIFE! And life is winning. I'm not equipped. I'm not prepared. I'm not old enough for this stuff. Let me share some of the reasons that life and I are finding ourselves incompatible right now.

I came home from a long, hard day at work. All I wanted was the sanctuary of my home and some affection from any of the creatures that live here. What I found was a catastrophe of amazing proportion. My daughter's seven month old puppy, Jag, was sitting in the midst of what looked like an exploded snow globe. He was happily gnawing on some foam rubber - foam rubber that was supposed to be filling the arm of my sofa! It seems that Jag found a pin-prick sized hole in the arm of the chair and decided to try digging to China. Foam covered the entire length and width of my living room. The arm of my sofa is now stuffed with a towel and the fabric has been seamed and stapled to the frame of the sofa with a staple gun. It's my fault, I'm sure. I have trust issues. I trusted that my daughter would be responsible enough to crate Jag before she went to work. And I trusted that I didn't need to say to Jag, "Don't eat Grandma's sofa today, Baby." I should have known. Life 1. Karen 0.

It's been terribly dry and cold around here lately. Battling static cling has become an obsession for me. I'm afraid to touch anything metal, or kiss anyone ANYWERE. It's gotten downright dangerous! Today when I got up from my desk, my skirt decided not to come along for the ride. As I yanked it free from its electric grip on the fabric of my chair I actually saw sparks fly. It was time to hit the bathroom and douse myself with Static Guard spray. I grabbed the spray can and started the process of grounding myself, so to speak. Imagine my surprise when I saw that my skirt was foaming! Trying to figure out the mystery, I checked the can I was holding. It was Right Guard antiperspirant. It takes a special kind of stupid to confuse deodorant and static cling spray. Meet Karen, a Special Kind of Stupid. Life 2. Karen 0

I plucked my eyebrows the other night. I plucked them while I had one eye on a movie I was watching in my semi-dark living room. And, of course, you can't pluck your eyebrows while wearing glasses, right? When the movie was finished I took my tools of torture into the bathroom to put them away and examined my handiwork. I looked like Mr. Spock. But not as cute. I now have wings instead of eyebrows. I don't think it's a look that's going to catch on. Life 3. Karen 0

The battle with life was getting to me, and I decided I needed an extra boost of self confidence. The other day I decided to wear makeup to work, not something I usually do. I worked hard to get the "right" look; something tasteful and flattering; mostly, I wanted to avoid looking clownish or as if I'd survived a bout in the ring with a pro boxer. I have to tell you, I was pretty impressed with the results. And it really did boost my confidence. When I got to the office my boss wanted to talk to me. We went over some business for a few minutes, and I kept hoping for some comment about my newly-enhanced look. I wasn't disappointed. As he followed me out of the office he said, "I like your new hair style, Karen." I got my "new" hairstyle two weeks ago, my friends. It requires no work. I wash it and walk out of the bathroom. No effort. The make up thing? Thirty minutes. Thirty freaking minutes. Life 4. Karen 0

I don't have call waiting activated on my cell phone because I don't know how to switch from one call to another. I've sent so many calls into the communication abyss that Nokia is going to feature me on their FAQ page. Similarly, I don't know how to use my daughter's DVD player. If I want to watch a DVD and she's not home to do the dirty work, I pop the movie into my computer. We got a new microwave from our second daughter for Christmas. It scares me. There are too many buttons and too many options. I've started using the stove again. I recently had voice mail installed on my home phone line because I ran out of space on my answering machine tape and didn't know how to erase it. But I can't access my voice mail yet because I lost the access code number and I'm too embarrassed to call the help desk one more time. Groucho Marx said, "A child of five would understand this. Send somebody to fetch a child of five." Amen Brother. Amen. Life 5. Karen 0

Until next time, this is Miss Cranky Pants signing off. Be careful out there, my friends.

Confessions of a Feared Cult Leader

The other day I spent some time at one of several internet personality quiz sites. It was an enlightening experience, and I feel more whole and complete now that I've participated in this type of self-analysis. Truly! I do! Absolutely.

If you do a Google search on the words "personality quiz sites" you'll find about 342,000 possible sites offered for your browsing pleasure! I've probably been to most of them. I'm hooked because it's cheaper than therapy and with just a few "clicks" of my mouse I can learn about myself and my life. With a few MORE clicks, I can change the results until I find the personality I WANT to have. How cool is that?

I have a theory about why there's such a plethora of these sites, and why they're so popular. Several theories, in fact.

-People are bored.
-People are curious.
-People want explanations, confirmation, justification, or absolution for their own perceived quirks, or the quirks of others.

Think about it! How can you refute a test that tells you with complete scientific authority that by earning a score 60% you most closely resemble Pooh Bear of all the denizens of the Hundred Acre Woods?

When things aren't going well in a relationship, isn't it comforting to find that it's not YOU who has/is the problem? I mean, how on earth can you hope to coexist in peace and harmony with someone whose color personality is "Puce", while yours is a lovely and sedate "Goldenrod"? You don't have to be the sharpest crayon in the box to see that this relationship isn't going to work. Clearly, the only thing to do in a case like this is find yourself a "Pomegranate" and fulfill your destiny.

And we don't need to talk about the futility of trying to defend your "Buick" personality to your "Camero" coworker. Everyone knows a Camero is simply incapable of any thought that requires more depth than a parking lot puddle after a gentle spring misting. The Camero is all flash. You're all wheel drive.

Here's a summary of the things I've learned about myself:

I'm a monkey.
I'm an average internet user.
I'm Pooh Bear.
I'm the color Burnt Sienna.
I'm a VW Bug.
I'm a Leo who should be with a Sagittarius in order to feel complete.
I'm a piece of cheesecake with strawberry topping.
I'm a green M & M.
I'm sensible shoes and flannel.
I'm an ENFP.

The most disturbing of my self discoveries, though, has to do with my past lives. According to one quiz I took, I was a feared cult leader in a past life. According to another, I was a nun. I'm a believer, I swear! But that seems like a huge disparity to me. Hey! Wait! Perhaps I was the nun AFTER I was the feared cult leader so that I could have a chance to do penance for my evil cult leader ways! That must be it. Yeah.

You know what really fries me, though? What really puts the harumph in my heart? In NONE of my tests did I find confirmation that I'm a sexy, alluring, femme fatal sort of woman. No matter how many times I changed my answers, I couldn't make that one work out. I'm the Dorm Mom/Librarian type with enough inhibitions to keep me chaste well into my next 7 or 8 lives. I guess there are worse things, right? RIGHT? *sigh* Maybe in my next life, huh?

Go take a test and report back to me, will you? ;-)

Making Tapioca and Other Divine Callings

Ambition can be a wonderful thing. Or so I’ve been told. My ambitions are rather modest, and no one will ever be able to accuse me of being driven. For the most part, I’m content to go through life trying to do more good than harm. That can be a full time job some days. I’m not much of a goal setter, either. When I lay down to sleep at the end of the day, I count it a good day if I…

…Kept a toe in the waters of reality AND kept wedgies to a minimum by wearing undies that fit my fanny, rather than my fantasies.

…Practiced critical thinking skills by remembering my name, where I parked the car, and how to spell Pennsylvania.

…Evidenced proper levels of self care by managing to get more food into my mouth than into my bra.

…Displayed physical acuity and attention to detail by making it through the backyard with mud on my shoes, as opposed to dirt of another sort compliments of our four dogs.

…Remembered to be grateful for laughter, and in return helped someone else to laugh.

I’ve been thinking Big Thoughts about this sort of thing for quite a while now. I’ve decided I believe that there can be worth in any ambition, goal, or action regardless of the perceived size, expense, or heroics involved. To a person aching with loneliness, a touch or kind word from a compassionate soul can be as life giving as an organ transplant performed by a gifted surgeon. Bigger, with all it’s subtle and not so subtle shades of meaning, is not always better. Sometimes it’s just bigger.

We all have the stuff of heroes within us, because we all have something to give; something to offer that someone else needs; Divine Callings, if you will. Sometimes we don’t recognize them in ourselves, but others do. Be sure of that.

It’s really kind of awesome, if you think about it. And a little scary. And a lot humbling. Regardless of our ambitions, almost nothing we do or say goes out from us and returns without somehow touching someone else. Our pebbles ripple the waters of other people’s lives. If you find that a little hard to believe, consider the story of The Tapioca Maker.

Toward the end of my Dad’s life, it was obvious that the cancer was winning. It was eating away at his body, dignity, and spirit. Dad didn’t go quietly into that good night. He wasn’t the sort of patient that inspires others by their strength and equanimity in the face of adversity. I loved him so much. I loved him enough to honor the man that we was without feeling the need to make excuses for him. Dad was angry, impatient, and not ready, even at the last, to accept the painful truth that he was going to die. There was very little any of us could do to ease his pain, soothe his moods, or help him find peace.

It’s incredibly hard to watch someone you love slip away from you. The helplessness is sometimes unendurable. You want to go, do, mend, fix. Anything you can do to feel like you’re contributing to your loved ones care feels like a small miracle, and you search for ways to serve. There’s no request too big, no sacrifice too demanding. You’ll do WHATEVER you have to do, because you love.

Dad eventually lost his appetite for most foods. That was a very scary thing for us, because Dad has always loved food; all sorts of foods. Food had been one of his greatest pleasures. But eating became something we forced him to do because his body needed the nourishment and because it made US feel better to see him eat.

One day Dad had a craving for tapioca pudding. REAL tapioca pudding. And what Dad wanted, Dad got. The next day when I arrived at the hospital, it was with tapioca in hand. Dad was only able to eat a few spoonfuls at a time, but he ate it. And he smiled. He once again found some enjoyment in food, and for a moment, in life. And I helped make it happen. That felt so damn good. I can’t begin to explain it to you. I wish I could.

The next day I went back to the deli where I bought the tapioca, and I bought some more. When the clerk was ringing up my order, I asked him if they made the tapioca on the premises. Yes, he said, they did. I told the clerk about how much Dad had enjoyed the pudding, and asked that he pass my thanks on to the person who made it. As I told him the story, I encouraged him to see his role as one of the ripples that helped to make a dying man happy. He looked at me like I was a little odd, but I didn’t mind. Some things you just have to “get” on your own.

Making tapioca isn’t brain surgery. But for a lot of us involved with Dad's care, it certainly felt like a Divine Calling. I hope the clerk took the time to tell the Tapioca Maker what a difference his calling made. And I hope someone tells you, too. If you have a list of ambitions, I hope you’ll add to it the ambition to search for and recognize your own Divine Calling. Because you have one. We all do.

Internet Chat - The Land of Beginning Again

If all the world’s a stage, as the good Bard would have us believe, then Internet Chat is the Broadway of cyber space! Anyone waddling through the World Wide Web will find an amazing variety of chat experiences as close as their next keystroke. At a conservative guess, I’d estimate that tens of thousands of people log into a chat room somewhere on a daily basis.

Like weary disciples seeking enlightenment, chatters come seeking a variety of things: escape from reality or boredom, meeting new friends, a chance to find Mr. or Ms. Right, and several less honorable motives that I don’t need to enumerate here. The needs are as varied as the people who frequent chat. I’m sure there’s probably some over-endowed institution somewhere that’s come up with a typical “Chatter’s Profile,” but as in the “real world,” labels often fall short of the whole truth.

I’d like to share my observations about the chatting experience, if I may.

PERFORMANCE ANXIETY - The Bar is Raised

Yahoo Chat, my chat preference, has some wonderful features, all designed to put unbelievable pressure on chatters! There are custom color schemes, custom fonts, custom emotions, and voice chat. I can’t coordinate my home as well as I can coordinate my chat experience!

Please! Ask me to defend the 1st Amendment to the Constitution! Ask me to debate the abortion issue or gay rights! For the love of God, you can even ask me to cook! But, please, PLEASE, don’t ask me to choose a new chat scheme. I can’t take the pressure anymore. Performance anxiety has raised my blood pressure, undercut my self confidence and driven me to drink; which, now that I think about it, isn’t such a bad idea when chatting.

And then there is the screen name.

SCREEN NAMES - A Rose by Any Other Name

A rose by any other name . . . is probably an incredibly ordinary person hiding behind a hot alias! Okay, that may be overly cynical, but not by much. Choosing a screen name is the first test of a chatter’s creativity. This process is not one to be taken lightly! Chat names are the first vehicle by which we reveal ourselves to others and can be very insightful. Sometimes you may not WANT that much insight, though, as was the case the other night when I ran into a man whose screen name was “Sheeppluggert." Can we all say "Ewwww" together? Screen names run the gamut from the sublime to the ridiculous. I’ve started jotting down those I find particularly amusing or creative. Here are just a few:

pie_r_not_square_22222
omggetmeoutofhere
ivana_b_rich_20
wasntmeitwasthedog
miss_spent_youth_2000
wife_and_dog_lost_reward4dog
WastinWorkTime
tinydick_lookin_4_farsighted_f
Rapt_Presence
lackofabettername

Aren’t they great?

Many people feel the need for more than one screen name. We are, after all, complicated creatures not willing to be boxed in by a name like “LostintheUniverse.” Depending on his current frame of mind, for instance, “Lost” may very well have an evening when “stud_in_thong_4U” is more appropriate. Freedom to express ones self is a trademark of chat.

After choosing a name, one is encouraged to provide a public profile. Like screen names, the public profile is another peek into the psyche of your fellow chatters . . . or not. See what you think.

PUBLIC PROFILES - I’ll Take What’s Behind Door Number 5, Monty.

So you want to be a rocket scientist? You have a mole that looks like Idaho? Men in black lace and heels turn you on? Put it in your profile! Each profile page invites you to reveal tantalizing glimpses into your world. A profile is a veritable wonderland of information. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, most people fill it with FALSE information. Think about it. What’s more appealing?

Name: Eugene Snodbottom
Age: 67
Location: Trailer Park Lot #43, Beaver Lick, KY
Occupation: Laundry attendant at Baby’s Diaper Service
Marital Status: Single and destined to stay that way
Hobbies: Making figurines from ear wax
Quote: “See Spot run. Spot runs fast. Run, Spot. Run”
Picture: Snappy shot of Eugene with his latest deer trophy hanging from a tree.
Favorite Links: HealthWatch.com: Living with Hemorrhoids

OR

Name: Slate Garcon
Age: 35
Location: Paris, France
Occupation: Entrepreneur
Marital Status: Single and looking
Hobbies: Wine tasting and updating my stock portfolio
Quote: “At the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet.” Plato
Picture: A tanned hard-body holding a glass of wine, wearing little more
than a seductive smile, and standing on the deck of a yacht.
Favorite Links: Tiffanys.com

Voila! With a few deft keystrokes, Eugene becomes the envy of every man and the desire of every woman. Frankly, people will believe anything if their reality is bad enough. One is left to wonder why these people have not been snapped up as great fiction writers by talent scouts from Harlequin Romance.

You’ve got your name and your profile is complete. Now you need to find a chat room!

CHAT ROOMS - Someone Toss Me a Map

Chat rooms are like a community. There are categories and subcategories. Would you like to chat with people in your geographical region? How about in your age group? Perhaps you’d like to mingle with others who share your passion for turn of the century Chinese urn collecting? If you can dream it, there’s a chat room for it.

You can join a chat room in a number of ways. The most common is to simply select the room that sounds like it will best meet your needs and join in. You can also be invited to join someone else’s room, public or private. Be suspicious if someone you’ve never met invites you to join them in a room called “The Riding Crop,” though. Room names can be just as misleading as screen names. Chances are about 50/50 that The Riding Crop has NOTHING whatsoever to do with equestrian pursuits.

Finally, you’ve found a room that caters to your needs. You can’t suppress the delighted shiver that snakes down your spine when you realize there are other people in the world who share your love for collecting velvet Elvis portraits. There’s only one thing to do. Let’s chat!

CHATTING - "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!”

Learning to chat effectively is not as easy as you might imagine. A chatter wants to communicate in a way that presents the best image and most closely mimics a “real” conversation. That can be quite a challenge. Without clues like facial expression and vocal tone everything depends on the written words and how they are enhanced. As mentioned earlier, being skilled in fiction writing also helps. And reading between the lines is a must. Actually, chatting is not dissimilar to reading an ad in the classifieds. Let me demonstrate.

FREE TO GOOD HOME - female AKC German Shepherd, 2yrs old, neutered, good with children.

TRANSLATION:

Free to good home: We can’t deal with the problem, but we’re hoping you’re stupid enough to try.
Female, AKC and German Shepherd: Territorial, neurotic and hairy police-dog-wanna-be.
Two years old: Personality is established, as is drinking from the toilet and gnawing on the mail carrier.
Neutered: The vet promised the operation would make her more amenable. He lied.
Good with Children: Hasn’t actually eaten a child...yet.

Now apply the same discernment in the chat room and you have:

HOWDY! I’M KALFROMPA. 39/F/PA. I’m married with two daughters, ages 15 and 18. I’m a Project Assistant and I like to read, play the piano and chat with friends.

TRANSLATION:

Howdy: Trying desperately to sound friendly and inviting. I want to be a cowgirl when I grow up.
Kalfrompa: I have no imagination and this was the best I could do. Pity me.
39/F/PA: I’m a female having a mid-life crisis, and I live in a state where all things Amish as sacred.
I’m married: But am I happily married? Would I be here if I were? Reference aforementioned mid-life crisis and make me an offer.
Two teenage daughters, 15 and 18: My mind is mush, my bank account is depleted and I’m two days away from institutional life.
Project Assistant: Glorified secretary. I can’t face the reality of my dead end job and living the rest of my professional life waiting for “causal days” or warding off paper cuts and carpal tunnel syndrome.
Read, play the piano, chat with friends: I want to appear intelligent and talented, but the only enjoyable interaction I have with people is in chat.

The adage “Buyer Beware” is at least as applicable in chat as it is in commerce. Perhaps more so.

CUSTOM EMOTIONS - Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble . . . I’ve Got Writer’s Block!

Nothing enlivens the chat experience quite like the use of “emotions”. Yahoo Chat offers a variety of pre-programmed phrases, or macros, that are used as shortcuts to typing and are called, for no apparent reason, "emotions." One click of the mouse posts a message like, “Kalfrompa waves to the room,” or “Kalfrompa hiccups and searches for a glass of water.”

The best test of creativity, however, is the custom emotion. These are phrases the chatter writes himself. Custom emotions become a showcase of inspiring offerings or amusing witticisms from people who normally have the emotional depth of a parking lot puddle. Given half a chance, chatters blossom into poet laureates before your very eyes! Or stand up comedians. Or saucy flirts. Or pigs. It’s a matter of taste, I suppose, but honestly! When custom emotions meet up with raging hormones, chat rooms afford one the opportunity to indulge in a sort of cyber voyeurism that would make a sailor blush.

VOICE CHATTING - Whaddya Say Schweethart

Finally, no discussion on chatting would be complete without visiting the topic of voice chatting. I’ll admit it. I don’t like change. Voice chat is a change I didn’t embrace at first. It is, however, becoming very popular with many chatters. Grab a microphone, click on a button and you can find yourself (gasp) talking to fellow chatters.

While there are some advantages to voice chatting, it must also be said that it rips away the veil and forces us to confront reality. I just hate that!

Imagine if you will: You’ve been chatting for quite some time with a fantastic man named “Rebel_Heart.” Mutual interest is running high. His profile looks believable enough to encourage further investigation. Soon you find yourself imagining what he looks like, what he sounds like. Personal preference and a vivid imagination combine to attribute a deep bass voice with a husky southern accent to this Rebel.

Then it happens. He invites you into a PM. You accept, your pulse pounding, your heart thudding in your chest in anticipation. After more small talk, he pops the question with a studied nonchalance that doesn’t fool anyone, “Wanna voice, Wings_to_Fly?” You can almost hear the husky invitation and imagine a sexy little wink. With trembling hands you clutch your microphone and join him in voice chat.

But wait! How can this be, you wail silently to yourself? CRASH! That’s the sound of your fantasy crumbling about you as you come to terms with the fact that your bass-voiced, southern-accented Rebel sounds remarkably like Kermit the Frog.

Shallow? Of course. Am I consumed with remorse for being shallow? Never. Which brings me to my final point.

INTERNET CHAT . . . The Land of Beginning Again

However vehemently chatters want to convince themselves otherwise, chat is the place where dreams take flight. It’s the Land of Beginning Again where a person can completely reinvent themselves and their circumstances. It is a place to indulge in fantasy and escape. And what’s wrong with that? Heaven knows we all have to face reality on a daily basis. For many people, reality is not a pretty place.

Kept in perspective, chatting can be a grand thing. Truly, chatters are among some of the most fascinating people I’ve ever met. I’ve been in chat rooms where I’ve laughed so hard that tears have come. And I’ve been in chat rooms where I’ve been humbled and touched beyond measure by the stories I’ve heard. I’ve seen people reach out to others out of their own pain, and I’ve seen life celebrated with enthusiasm. I’ve been taught by others, and I’ve had the chance to teach others. I’ve seen real and committed relationships form in chat rooms between people who need each other desperately, but may never meet outside that realm. Does that make them any less valid? I don’t think so.

Chat is a classroom for any student of human nature. Yes, there are less than pristine aspects to chatting and chatters. In that way, chat mirrors real life. Chat does have an ugly side. There are stalkers in chat that are as dangerous as their real-world counterparts. There are people who chat with motives that are less than noble. Some chatters are so lonely and unhappy with their lives that they form unhealthy attachments to fellow chatters and become almost parasitic. Chatting can be addictive, and it can give such a sense of false comfort that people stop trying to address their very real personal challenges.

All that having been said, and with the acknowledgment that the autonomy of chat does allow for deception, it must also be said that the relative safety of chat allows for some of the most amazing disclosures I’ve ever witnessed. People need to connect with other people. Chat answers that need in a unique way. When all is said and done, chatters are simply people; they come in every color, size and disposition and from every locale. Some come to chat whole and some broken, but they do indeed come.

One night I hosted a private room with several women and we were having a great time. Only a few of us knew each other prior to that evening. The laughter was contagious and spirits were high. For that place in time, we allowed ourselves to be silly and fun and a little wild. One of the most lively and entertaining members of the group said her goodbyes and then sent me a private message. We had never met before, and she wanted to thank me for welcoming her into the moment and helping her laugh. She went on to share that only that morning her daughter had been diagnosed with a brain tumor. For a while, at least, that woman’s greatest need had been for distraction and escape. She found that in a chat room filled with strangers.

Will I keep chatting? You bet. Will I continue to poke fun at myself and my fellow chatters? Probably. After all, all the world’s a stage...and I’ve always wanted to be an entertainer.

Trivia Bricks Defined and Submitted

Trivia bricks are pieces of personal information one reveals to others. A trivia brick, in its most noble form, is meant to encourage a similar sharing of trivia bricks from others. You give one to get one. This exchange then leads to mutual entertainment, enlightenment, and perhaps even blackmail material.

Okay, okay. What a trivia brick is REALLY supposed to do is help build a foundation upon which a relationship can grow. That's the intent. To be known and to know; vital steps in the relationship dance.

However...

Some people hurl their trivia bricks haphazardly, with little regard to those in harms way. The bricks from people like this are usually a little scary and are put out there to make a statement, or for their shock value. They prostitute the whole cause of exchanging trivia bricks because they are not intended to build anything (except maybe to build a legal case against the hurler at some point in the future). These "are in your face bricks." A perfect example would be when the person in front of you in the grocery check out line turns to you and says, "I like my men the way I like my turkey. Cold, hard, and trussed up with rope." If you're smart, you'll note the hurlers license plate number as you run to the safety of your car.

Other people toss their trivia bricks out there gently, almost apologetically, hoping for a nibble of interest, but not completely willing to risk it. Their bricks are more like trivia nerfs. If they graze someone on the head, they don't leave a mark. These poor souls are afraid to "burden" others with their information. They've been crushed once too often by someone wearing a tee shirt that says, "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" A typical example of this type of bricking might be, "I love puppies. They're so soft and cuddly. Kittens, too." This person is NOT a risk taker. The most appropriate response is to pat the person on the head and say something like, "You have a good heart."

Then there are the people who realize the true potential of handing out trivia bricks responsibly and with a certain degree of panache and self confidence. In their hands, a trivia brick can be entertaining, maybe a little disturbing (but not in a she/he-should-be-in-incarcerated sort of way), and truly relationship building in nature.

Modesty won't permit me to categorize my own style of trivia brick dissemination. You'll have to decide for yourself. I will tell you, however, that each brick is true and usually has a very logical explanation behind it. Honest.

• I once had sex with a bird. Wait. It would be more accurate to say I once unwittingly provided a moment or two of carnal pleasure for a female cockatoo named Allie. There's blog entry about it somewhere here if you want the details. (See "A Bird in Hand - Is a Happy Bird, It Seems", October archive.) Allie no longer lives here, by the way. She kept looking at me with those hope-filled blue eyes afterwards, and I couldn't take the guilt.
• Some of my closest friends call me Moses because I once (again unwittingly) set my crotch on fire. It wasn't one of my finer moments. I thought the "pffffffffttttt" sound meant the cigarette had reached the water of the toilet bowl. It hadn't. It reached SOMEWHERE, but not the water. I no longer smoke, but I DO keep a fire extinguisher in the bathroom cabinet. It was JUST that bad.
• I don't cook. I once had to call my mother (at the age of 40) and ask her how you can tell when a hot dog was done cooking. After she explain the phenomenon of "plumping" to no avail, she told me to get in the car and drive to McDonald's. I did. May Ronald's reign never cease.
• When I drink, I think I can sing. Most of the time I test that theory in my favorite chat room using the mic. People there like me, so they humor me. In other words, they lie. That's one reason I will never go to a Karaoke bar. Those people are strangers. They won't lie.
• I will do whatever it takes to avoid eating asparagus. I don't like its shape, color, or texture. It's looks like a pointy object used for torture, or at the very least something to help perk up lonely, sex-starved housewives. No thank you.
• I rock. Not in the sense that I'm cool. In the literal sense. When I sit, I rock. From the waist up, I move back and forth rhythmically. I'm not autistic. I don't have a repressed need for comfort. My mother didn't drop me on my head as an infant. It just feels good. It's soothing. I've done it since I was a little child. I rocked at my desk at school and rock at my desk at work. I rock in the car while driving. I rock in the computer chair while typing (you type on the forward swing). And I rock in the church pews. Funnily enough, rocking in a rocking chair makes me motion sick. Go figure.
• I am geographically challenged. I only found out a few years ago that Pennsylvania (where I live) is bordered by New York. I don't know North, South, East, and West. I know Up, Down, Right, and Left. I can't be Catholic, because I can't figure out the correct way to make the sign of the cross. If someone asks me to name the seven (there are seven, right?) continents, I have to first try and figure out the difference between a country and a continent. It's just an ugly truth about me. I'm sorry.
• I hate housework. HATE it. I've been known to be late for work because I've forgotten to do laundry and had to hand wash and then dry a pair of panties using a blow dryer. I think the vacuum cleaner is a tool of Satan and refuse to have anything to do with it. I think coaxing the dog to swish his tail across the coffee table is a perfectly acceptable alternative to dusting. If my automatic toilet bowl cleaner ever stops working, I'm screwed.
• I've been known to use air freshener as perfume when I've forgotten to scent myself before leaving for work. You'd be amazed at how many people love my swanky French perfume, Potpourri a la Glade.
• I'm a little lackadaisical in my approach to exercise. I'd rather jump to conclusions than a rope. I think walking the dog should qualify as an Olympic event. Lunges should only be attempted when chocolate is in danger of hitting the floor and you're too far away to catch it with your tongue. Changing the toilet paper on the spindle can wipe me out of energy for a good two hours. My motto (which I stole from some teeshirt somewhere) is "Eat right, Exercise, Die Anyway." I'm also fond of "No pain, no pain."

There you have it, folks. Some of my most cherished "stuff" put right out there for your judgment. Please be kind. ;-) Oh, and feel free to share some of your own bricks. It's a little intimidating being out on this limb all by myself.

A Watched Pot

One of the things I never anticipated about having a blog is the self-imposed pressure that it can bring to feel like I have to find something thought provoking or entertaining to say. It occurred to me today, as I was gnawing my fingernails down to nubs from the anxiety of it all, that there are JUST some things that can't be forced. Perhaps filling the pages of my blog is one of those things.

Following that train of thought led me to another ponderment; what OTHER things can't be forced with much hope of success? How many times do we think that simply by force of will, force of muscle, or force of expectations we can MAKE something happen? Sometimes we can bully, cajole, or plead enough. Sometimes we can fight hard enough, try hard enough, believe stongly enough, that we can make our desired outcomes happen. Sometimes we can.

And sometimes we can't.

I'm sure some of you have heard the ideology, "Name it. Claim it." You'll most often hear that assurance used within Christian circles. Yes, you too, my child, can make every prayer come true if you simply have enough faith, enough prayer, enough pure motives, enough good works, enough money to give to the televangelist du jour. The Good Book says it. Our job is simply to pull ourselves up by our faith bootstraps and BELIEVE it. Mountains will move. Lepers will be healed. The national debt will disappear. And sometimes it works.

And sometimes it doesn't.

And when it doesn't, who is to blame? The faithless one who didn't believe strongly enough to name it and claim it. The disciple with feet of clay who JUST couldn't get it right ENOUGH.

Then there's the "Act it until you feel it" admonition. Unhappy? Depressed with life and love and various other details that crop up to snag you when you least expect them? Well, hecky thump! Easily enough fixed! ACT like you're enthusiastic and soon you'll FEEL enthusiastic. Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and march on, little soldier. Pretty soon the drummer you're marching to will be beating a jig tempo and you'll feel like dancing again. Dust off your rose colored glasses, Pollyanna, and plop them on your face. Soon your tears will turn to diamonds and life will be grand again. And sometimes it works.

And sometimes it doesn't.

And when it doesn't, who failed?

Truly, I'm not being as pessimistic as I sound. I believe with all my heart that "God is not dead, nor does he sleep." I still believe in miracles. I believe that circumstances CAN sometimes be changed by changing attitudes, expectations, perceptions, etc. But not always.

Facts are facts. We live in a world where "fair" isn't always easily found. We are fallible, fragile human beings. We make mistakes. We hurt ourselves and others. And sometimes we are victims of things we simply can't control, no matter how hard we wish we could. And sometimes we victimize others.

Some things can't be changed.

• Watched pots won't boil any faster than those that are completely ignored.
  
• Hundreds and even thousands of prayers don't always change the course of life events; loved ones still get sick and die, disasters still happen, diseases still strike, and grief finds its insidious way into the most noble and deserving of lives.
  
• Love and passion can't be forced into blossom where they simply don't exist, no matter how much we might wish otherwise.
  
• Forgiveness and grace can't always be extended by hearts wounded so deeply that trust is shattered, no matter how great the desire to do so.
  
• Puppies deprived of adequate chew toys will continue to eat shoes, furniture, and each other.
  

Okay, that last one was my not-too-subtle segue into the more optimistic phase of this ramble.

So what IS the answer? How do we confront the painful moments in life that seem completely out of our control? How do we slog our way through those circumstances that are immune to our most creative machinations to change them from horror to hope?

I have no idea. Sorry.

But I have a list of "maybes."

• Maybe we need to be honest with ourselves and others. If that means we have to wallow for a bit, then at least let us be honest about it. Let's Pretend doesn't make the pain go away, it just keeps us from working through it in a healthy way. Life is a process. Go through the steps honestly.
  
• When wallowing has run its course and threatens to keep us stuck, then maybe we need to look outside ourselves for a bit. Change the focus away from us and onto others. Give back. Pass it forward. Do unto others. See a bigger picture. Become a wounded healer. Reach out and touch someone.
  
• For those of us familiar with guilt, the gift that keeps on giving, maybe we need to be gentle with ourselves for a time. Yeah, we need to be accountable for our actions, or lack thereof. We need to acknowledge when we've hurt or failed; whether it's ourselves or others. But heaping blame upon blame on shoulders already frail from the burden of failure won't right any wrong.
  
• And finally, maybe we need to find our hope again. Or our faith. Or our optimism. Or even our reality. Call it whatever you like. Bad things happen to good people. Good things happen to bad people. Those are facts. The reality is that, if we're willing to accept the challenge that is life, bad AND good things will continue to happen.

And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow...

Maybe you'll hold a baby in your arms and you'll feel refreshed.

Maybe you'll hear that you're loved, and you'll believe it.

Maybe you'll see or hear something silly that will make you laugh.

Maybe you'll read something that will make you think big thoughts.

Maybe you'll hear a song that makes your heart glad.

Maybe you'll experience grace; a second chance, a loss redeemed.

Maybe you'll be licked by a puppy, or serenaded by purring cat as you stroke it.

Maybe you'll find beauty in the softly lined face of an elderly saint or a friend's heart.

Maybe you'll find inspiration in the most unlikely place.

Maybe you'll find you have something to share on a blog, or in a life, after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as if everything is." Albert Einstein

"We are more than what we do...much more than what we accomplish...far more than what we possess." William Arthur Ward

"Be glad of life, because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars." Henry Van Dyke

"He's Just Not That Into You"

My older daughter (22 years old) has, for the past two years, suffered from a nearly catastrophic case of unrequited crush. If you ask her, she'll swear it's love. If you ask ME, it's just sad. Sad, sad, sad. Kim has a lot to offer, and certainly more than her crush-er deserves. Some truths, however, must be learned by mercilessly beating one's head upon the rock of reality several THOUSAND times before they finally take root. Such is the case with Kim.

While watching a recent episode of Oprah, purveyor of all wisdom, Kim was introduced to Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo, authors of, "He's Just Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys." (See below for link to book info at Amazon.com.)

In a nutshell, the book slaps every single, seeking woman in the face and heart with a strong dose of the author's version of truth. The target audience is any woman who has ever held on to the hope that the man in her life who treats her like dirt does so because he's misguided, has commitment issues, wears his briefs too tight (thereby restricting the blood flow to his brain and impairing his judgment), or suffers from any number of other justifications she can come up with to excuse him for treating her with less devotion than he would his Boston fern, for example.

This woman, because of her own needs, fantasies, or desperation, truly believes he'll come around. It will just take a little more time, patience, love, trust, devotion, unconditional acceptance, or turning yourself into a pretzel to make this relationship and this man The One.

The truth, according to the authors, is that "he's just not that into you." Their book was written to liberate women from their bondage to hope and fantasy and encourage them to go trolling in streams stocked with better catches.

I read the book, and I'm willing to accept that there's more than a little truth within its pages. It wasn't an easy book to read because it did a masterful job of stripping away excuses that didn't want to be stripped. However, by the time I finished, I was ready to break into a rousing chorus of "I Am Woman" and march forth with a commitment to be stronger, more in control, and to never again be victimized by a man who just isn't that into me.

I predict this new-found feeling of self righteousness will stay with me until the next time I get a phone call, after a week of silence, and hear some creative excuse like "I was trying to clear up my toe fungus. Sorry" And I'll buy it. Well, hell! Toe fungus is a horrible thing, after all! And besides, MY guy is different. He'd never deliberately.... Yeah.

Get the book. Read it. Figure out for yourself if there's any validity to the author's suppositions. In the meantime, I've decided to share some of my own hard-won wisdom. Here are some behaviors I feel should indicate that "he's just not that into you."

• He comes home after being out of town for a week and brushes past you with no more than a distracted "hi" to gather his cat in his arms and tell her how much he's missed her. If this is followed by kitty kisses before YOU'VE received a kiss it should pretty much cements the notion that "He's JUST not that into you."
• You call him on his cell phone and whisper something provocative in his ear. He puts you on hold. So he can take another call. From his sister. Read the writing on the wall, or the phone bill. "He's just not that into you."
• You've been dating for several months. Visions of china patterns dance in your head. You run into his best friend at the mall. The one he works out with every week. The one you've never met. It's obvious his best friend knows NOTHING about you, either. This best friend says, with a perplexed look on his face, "Karen? You're Karen? I thought Karen was your aunt, Buddy?" Not a good sign, but as clear as a newly washed window; "He's just not that into you."
• Every time you start a discussion about marriage he breaks into a sweat, possibly accompanied by a case of hives, and mumbles to himself wondering whether or not the French Foreign legion is still in existence. Yeah, he may be into you, but his phobic reaction means "He's just not THAT into you."
• If you constantly find yourself lagging on his list of priorities, take the hint. If spending time fighting gingivitis, channeling his dearly departed hamster, or ironing take precendence over time with you, "He's just not that into you."
• He knows every statistic for every player in the NBA. He knows when the Treaty of Versailles was signed why it was important. He can recite the entire dialogue of "The Terminator." But he has no idea when your birthday is, what your middle initial stands for, or if you're allergic to bee stings. Frankly, 'He's just not that into you."
• And the biggest of the big hints: In a moment of passion he either, a. can't remember your name, or b. calls you by another woman's name. Run ladies. Run fast. "He's JUST not that into you." But before you run, do the gracious thing and thank him very kindly for all the good times. And call him by name when you do it... Ron...Tom...John...pick any name you like, as long as it's not HIS name.

Like I said, get the book. Then come back here and tell me what YOU think. ;-)

Link to the book at Amazon.com:
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/068987474X/qid=1104689223/sr=8-1/ref=pd_csp_1/104-7640133-6611104?v=glance&s=books&n=507846