As one of the first of my friends and family to own and operate a computer, I swore I wouldnâ€™t give in to using the vast window of knowledge as a lazy and unattached source of meager social communication.
When MySpace became The Latest, I felt posting oneâ€™s pictures and decorating their â€śspaceâ€ť to fit their style, send of humor, and mood was disgustingly self-serving, a tool for only the vain to use and then only those who had way too much time on their hands.
I understand that with the impending doom of global warming, economic recession and avian flu that looms ever over our heads and the other countriesâ€™ laughing at or terrorizing or poisoning us I should speak on matters more pressing than petty. But I am a woman â€” so please indulge the worries of my troubled mind.
While global turmoils rage on I am getting old. â€śTheyâ€ť tell us to â€śage gracefullyâ€ť but I intend to go down, as with any battle, kicking and screaming.
There is a song that claims the above title and when I used to hear it, I would change the station. It wasnâ€™t really that I didnâ€™t like the tune, but the words werenâ€™t as inspiring to me as they were intended to be to the listener.
Iâ€™ve always been a firm believer that people werenâ€™t meant to fly. If we had, we would have been born with wings. Since the only human things in history or legend with them were the angels and a couple mythical gods, and if, after many years or doing so, we havenâ€™t yet begun to evolve as a species to even grow one feather, it wasnâ€™t meant to be.
Camping out, even with the finest in roughing-it luxuries and the latest in technology does not always mean things will run smoothly.
Generators will die; bulbs and fuses will burn out; someone will get sunburned (normally me) and knowledge moving through cyberspace from one place to another gets lost. No matter how much I open my mind, I cannot understand how a program can on one end, say it is there or that it was sent, and then on another, not be there or say it wasnâ€™t received.
Not to take a mental disorder caused by physical tragic events lightly (I actually suffered from it myself at one time) I just have to say Iâ€™m pretty sure that elevators and escalators are a cause for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
When you go on a road trip, you learn a lot of things. You learn more about your traveling companions even if they are family members or the closest friends. You learn what your vehicle is capable of, what routes are the fastest (contrary to Ms. GPS who apparently sometimes thinks itâ€™s funny to lie) and you learn how long you can hold your bladder. If youâ€™re like me, with the attention span of a hummingbird on Red Bull, you learn the hard way that you need to read more thoroughly.
On the road again ... just canâ€™t wait to get on the road again.
What is it about a road trip that is so inviting? Nobody really enjoys sitting for long periods of time. Conversations taper off after about the first two hours. Roads inevitably will have construction going on, someoneâ€™s going to have to stop to use the restroom, and at least one driver is sure to make the traveler cringe or curse.
Have you ever had one of those days when pretty much nothing goes well? I donâ€™t mean the horrid-life-changing-tragedy type of days, but the kind that will stick with you and make you dread the decision you made earlier to get out of bed?
I wish I could do a spin-off of the Fashion Police show (on E) of my own using stylish authorities (albeit less snarky) to ticket people making fashion faux pas.
For those of you who donâ€™t know, the fashion police are a fictitious group or fashion-conscious specialists whose only purpose is to assure that people arenâ€™t walking along like Barbie dolls that oneâ€™s Little Brother dressed â€” and if they are, they correct them. While normally I canâ€™t stand the shows on TV telling us what to or not to wear, I do believe someone should be able to call a foul when one is made.