excuses make you lose your power...**

Excuses, excuses, excuses... we all use them. They’re convenient, sometimes easy to come up with, and make everyone feel better about the situation at hand. But when do excuses cross the line?

The other day while driving home from work, I was pulled over by the Pasco police. Why, you ask? Oh, well, it was because I didn't have my lights on, and it was roughly 10:30 PM. I've been driving for nearly six years, ergo I should know when it's appropriate to use my headlights.

When asked about my egregious error in vehicle maneuvering, I came up with this gem of a reason... “I just wasn’t thinking.”

Yeah bitch, I guess.

We, as in humans/Americans/people in general, seem to use the, "I just wasn't thinking", excuse a lot. Why is this? We all know it's total bullshit. Umm, yeah right, I wasn’t thinking... I'm pretty sure it's physiologically impossible to 'not think'. Sometimes I’m just a dumbass, plain and simple.

Overuse of this ‘not thinking’ line could mean one of two things. Either society’s intelligence is nearing reality show star level (several points above a vegetative state, for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Hills), or... we just like to make shit up to cover our own asses.

Could stupidity and the ability to ‘not think’ really be a pandemic of H1N1 proportions? I certainly hope not, but we all had to know that the end of human intelligence was near when a show like, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", had enough material to air more than one episode. Really? You didn't know you were with child? For the love of all that is holy, keep it to yourself, and hope that your kid doesn't someday stumble across the DVD record of you telling the nation the story of its birth, which happened to be in a toilet, while you were halfway through your shift at Wendy's. The poor kid is going to have a hard enough life with you as a parent.

As hopeless as I feel after watching a marathon of idiotic pregnant women confessing their parking lot birth stories (more so because I wasted time watching, rather than caring that it actually happened), I don’t think stupidity is the real issue. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

I think, what people actually mean when they say, "I just wasn't thinking!" is, "That was so fucking stupid, I can't believe I did that, I’m sooo embarrassed." Blaming your less-than-brilliant idea (or lack thereof) on misfiring synapses in your prefrontal cortex just sounds better than admitting your own defeat.

"I just wasn't thinking!" isn't the only ‘cop-out’ phrase we frequent... Who hasn't used the little ditty known as, "No offense-", as a pre or post statement warning? By informing our conversational target that we mean no ill-will, it's almost as if we're allowed to say anything without fear of repercussions.

It’s quite literally an excuse to be a jerk, because, you’re forcing the person beforehand to take no offense. Like telling someone you’re going to pinch them, and then following through- they can’t get mad, can they? You warned them!

But, like all good excuses, ‘no offense’ can only go so far in protecting you. It’s like verbal birth control, it’ll most likely keep a child at bay (take note, ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant’-ers!), but it won’t save you from herpes... shudder.

"No offense, but that was the most idiotic thing I've ever heard," seems allowable in conversations amongst friends, but I would never utter, "No offense, but your baby is ugly as fuck,"... even if the child in question was exceedingly unattractive. It just seems rude, and it’s one of those things you can’t come back from (like herpes...). It’s highly unlikely that the mother of Godzilla’s mini-me will let you continue in your attempts to assure her that your statement was really a complement, that ‘ugly as fuck’ means ‘pretty as an angel’ in your vocabulary. You’d be better off feigning a strange bout of Tourette’s.

To me, saying 'no offense' is technically just saying, "I'm an ass, and I realize that this is a rude thing to say, but I'm going to go ahead with it anyway because, well, I already told you I'm an ass... What more do you want from me?!?"

When it comes down to it, we're all guilty of using convenient phrases to skirt around common decencies like accountability, assumed aptitude and decorum... it’s part of our charm. And while excuses seem reasonable at certain points in our daily lives, we all need to realize that they are always going to be just that... excuses. They may give us a chance to bide some time and make up for our bad behavior, but they’ll soon become as tired as Tom Cruise... and no one will want to hear, or see them, anymore.

But have no fear! Thankfully, college has shown me that there is one excuse that nullifies nearly anything you could ever say or do (sans bodily harm or injury, those trump all)... Yep, you guessed it.

Drunkenness. No explanation needed. You’re welcome.

PREACH.




**And I'll buy a beer, or juice, for the first person to name the man responsible for the title of this entry.

look at me, i'm maturing... sort of.

It seems like it was just last week that I declared my immaturity... you know, my penchant for Hercules, Mulan and the Little Mermaid and distaste for matrimony and children?

Oh, wait, it was last week. Literally seven days ago. But I'm here to tell you, that yes, I am maturing. Slowly.

As ridiculous as it may sound (and I assure you, it will sound ridiculous, especially if you read it out loud in a Minnesotan accent), I discovered my new found maturity while singing along to a Miley Cyrus song. Right, I know. It's not just my varied music tastes that assure me of my limitless intellectual boundaries...

You see, all my life, I've been terribly afraid of what other people think of me. I'm a very cynical and sarcastic person, but I try to keep my bitchy asides to myself, and the people I call my best friends- you know, the ones that I'm friends with because they either have incriminating photos of that one night, know way too much about the 'real' me, or because it's too hard to break in a new friend at this age. But to strangers, I strive to be unusually pleasant and try way too hard at being humorous and agreeable.

It's exhausting.

I've always been fearful of disagreeing with the status quo, or voicing my opinion if I thought it to be contrary to the majority's. I don't know why, but I've constantly censured myself. It's not even that my opinions are that wacky, or outlandish, or offensive. When I was younger, I guess it was just easier not to have them at all, tame as they may be.

Last Thanksgiving, we were all sitting in my grandparent's living room, when my cousin let out a slight giggle. "Nice shoes, Grandma."

I looked over to my grandmother, who was born in the 1930's, and down to her fancy footwear. She was wearing Rocawear sneakers.

"Thank you! I got them at Macy's." --Was her reply. She didn't care that people her age generally stick to Keds, and I really doubt she knows who, exactly, Jay-Z is. The simple fact was, they were brown and gold and matched her outfit, so she bought them. She liked them, and that was all that mattered.

It got me thinking... maybe that's what maturity is? Liking what you like, being who you are, with no excuses or explanations necessary.

And that begs the question... who am I? I'm not really sure, but here are a few truths:

I like that Miley Cyrus song. I don't like all of her songs, but the new one, Party in the USA? I like it. If it's on the radio, I'll sing along. If it comes up on my iPod's shuffle (yes, I downloaded it) I may pause long enough to hear it through its last chorus.

Clueless, is probably my favorite movie of all time. I have others that I quite enjoy: One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Next, This is Spinal Tap, My Man Godfrey, Edward Scissorhands and the Princess Bride... but Clueless? It was brilliant. I don't care what anyone says.

I love Target. It is a fantastic store.

Sometimes I watch NFL games, but only for three reasons. Tom Brady, Brady Quinn, and Mark Sanchez. I couldn't care less about the game. I usually only watch a few minutes, get in a few close-ups of the QB, and peace out to a different channel. Probably ABC Family or something equally juvenile.

I'm disorganized to a fault. It's pathetic, because I have planners and binders and file folders and bins and hangers and ANYTHING anyone would ever possibly need to be a reasonably neat and tidy person. And I disregard them. It's as if I buy them to appease some sort of cleanliness obsessed person deep inside me, but my sloth-like tendencies always come out the victor.

I hate Ugg boots, Ed Hardy, Juicy fits (tracksuits, to those of you who don't have a Jevon dictionary) and probably almost anything fashionable... Perhaps it's that I have no fashion sense, but I'm okay with that.

Apathy is something I've mastered, conquered and learned to hate. It's who I am, but I know that to become a better person, I need to fight against it with all my strength. I'll work on that tomorrow, I guess.

I don't understand the whole Twilight, Edward, vampire obsession. I've read the books, I saw the movie. I still don't get it. And I'm pretty sure I'm one of about eight people that shares that opinion. I also don't understand the hoopla surrounding Star Wars, or the Lord of the Rings. Though, I have to admit, I love Harry Potter. I'm not 11, but I sure as hell would drop anything and everything if my Hogwarts letter rolled in tomorrow, late because of my frequent address changes...

So there you go. A tiny, little peek into the real me. These things may not seem monumental, at all, but most of them are things that I clearly remember lying about. Oh, also, I lie a lot. Mostly to strangers, but does that make it any better? Actually, I think it does... but that's neither here nor there.

It comes down to the fact that you may not like me, but I can't say that I actually care. Well, I probably do, because who am I kidding, I live to be liked... But I'm going to try not to.

I'M BECOMING A GROWN UP!

So suck on that, suckers (lame...).

the real world: pasco

No, I don't live with seven strangers while camera crews chronicle my every inebriated mistake (assuming that most decisions made under the influence are, in fact, mistakes), but I feel that I've begun to wade into the pool that is 'real life'.

FYI... It is an icy cold bitch with one hell of an undertow. And it's riddled with slimy seaweed that scares the crap out of you when it slithers around your leg.

The many perks of real life have made me stop and think, and realize that I sincerely miss college.

My memories of joy and splendor in the tundra of the 509 prompted me to recently rearrange my entire schedule, setting aside a Saturday night especially for a Pullman reunion. One night in the birthplace of constant revelry and drunken good times was all it took to comprehend how far I've come since my abrupt departure last spring.

I've become lame, and sober, or as some of my friends would say, "Bitch can't hang." Two beers into the night, I found myself content with watching the lewdness surrounding me rather than joining in. I poured out the warm ale taking up residence in the bottom of my bottle (something that is practically punishable by death) and became a fly on the wall in the world of collegiate merrymaking.

Truth be told, I even refused a thrice offered pull of watermelon vodka. Of course, I hate watermelon, I've struggled with vodka since a camping trip gone awry, and I'm a little bit of a hypochondriac- thereby deathly afraid of catching the swine flu... but I haven't always been so pragmatic. The old me would have thrown caution to the wind, impending illness be damned. I would have choked down the fruit flavored atrocity gladly, if only because it was free and wasn't wearing a Monarch label.

People climbed on cars, falling off them ever-so-gracefully, they were tricked into taking shots of olive oil, they screamed and yelled and fell and most likely vomited. There was ping pong in the yard, and condoms strewn about the ground. Reliving the night, I'm beginning to think that every college movie and show that we all feel is ridiculously over-exaggerated... probably isn't. Crazy shit goes down.

College is one of those places where people sing in the streets and dance on the sidewalks. It's where people get their heads shaved (unbeknownst to them) on the front steps of their friend's house at one in the morning. In college you can heckle a girl on the bus because you don't believe her English accent is real, or run through parking lots screaming about some boy you're obsessed with in your Econ class. Just don't throw your camera in his general direction... drunk you won't be able to figure out how to fix it until the tequila wears off...

People in college can run into Pita Pit, in the middle of the afternoon, holding a small white mouse, demanding shredded cheese. They can also discuss shrooming in a tanning bed, and scream into their cell on campus, "I do not have AIDS!"

In Pullman, Wednesday is Wing Night, and on Tuesdays you used to be able to consume Flat on Your Wileys until you regained consciousness next to your trash can, in your bed, your house key bent in half. You can even wake up in your apartment managers office, having pissed all over her desk, wearing a swim cap with an American flag draped over your body.

God, I miss those days.

Most of the time, I don't feel like a grown up at all. I still live with my parents, I can't stomach the thought of eating tomatoes, and I have a certain affection for Disney movies... but I am 22 years old. I am technically a grown up. I see people my age (and younger) having babies, and getting engaged, and getting married... and it all makes me a little bit sick. Not because it's bad, or gross, or unnatural- but because I am so far away from 'that place' that it's hard to fathom my peers are nearing it. Or taking up residency in it.

Then, while perusing Facebook, I see the many albums of the 'kids' who are enjoying their first year or two out of high school. I think to myself, "Do they do anything other than drink? Good Lord. They're seriously drunk all the time. And why are they posting these pictures? They look hideously wasted. And whore-ish."

Cut to picture #242 of yours truly, and feel free to call me a hypocrite. Or a drunk. Or one hell of a competitor... (did I previously neglect to reminisce about 'The Ladder'?)

WSU was (and I say was with immense fondness and slight sadness) an amazing time. I love the town, and the people, and the energy that surrounded the Palouse. But there's nothing like one night in the breeding ground of debauchery to jostle me (permanently) out of the college mindset.

I'm not 19 anymore. I like drinks that taste good, and I quite enjoy waking up before noon. I have a limited tolerance for idiocy, as I get enough of it at work. I hate screaming over the music, and I shiver at the thought of sticky floors. I've become so incredibly lame.

I'm going to Vegas in a month, a place I'd vowed never to return to after my last four night stint... though I retracted my rather rash claim shortly after boarding the plane. I'm not worried, though. I know I'll be able to hold my own... Vegas can't touch Pullman. Even on the quietest of nights on the Palouse, choruses of "She's not that drunk!" can be heard near and far.

let's celebrate, with liquor, of course!

As Cinco de Mayo nears, and I train for nearly-lethal amounts of tequila and Coronas, I had a thought...

Almost all celebratory acts revolve around the (over)consumption of everyone's favorite drug... meth.  Er- I mean alcohol.

You aced (or even finished, I suppose) your Calc test?  BEER BONG!  It's your birthday?  Well then, here is a bottle of Monarch's finest and a bucket.  You'll need the bucket, trust me.  You're getting married?  Champagne!!  Oh, and a case of whiskey for when you realize what married life is all about...  Cheers!

Are we, as Americans (or humans in general), incapable of celebrating with out some sort of mind-altering agent?  I'm beginning to think so.

Last Cinco de Mayo was my second day in a post-21 run world, and it was also a Monday.  So you can only imagine the kind of shenanigans most of the Tri was up to.  And by that, I mean the town was practically dead.

But I was excited.  I finally got over my Cheney/Pullman induced alcohol coma, and was ready and rearing to go.  A few equally energetic comrades and I wandered into the Sports Page, a local watering hole that's usually filled with a college crowd, as well as several cougars (not the crimson and gray kind...) and truckers.  

There were four patrons other than us, and no drink specials in sight.  Needless to say, we ran our asses out of there before you could say, "Cops!"

The next stop was the Parkade, which was surprisingly (not really) even more lame.  We asked the tattooed bar maiden of the specials, and she looks at us as if we were drunk, though we were unfortunately mostly sober.

"We don't have drink specials."  She spat.  All right then, fuck you, see if we come back.  We're on a budget here and need to get lit.

So, heads hung low and spirits nearly drowned, we wandered into a little place called, THE TRASH.  It is not an ironic nickname, it is quite literally made up of, and full of, trash.  There were bras hanging from the ceiling and a caliber of clientele that is probably only mirrored in rural Arkansas.  Things were not looking good.

That is, until we spotted a little thing called the specials board...

"$3.00 Margaritas and 50 cent Tequila Shots!!!!!(until 12)" it read.  Well shit, it was 8:30, and it was gonna be a loooooong night.

After a few (haha) tequila shots and several blue margaritas, we found that THE TRASH was filling up fast, with, you guessed it- classy folks.

We found ourselves mingling and dancing and cavorting with the best of them, and by the best I mean the worst.  Almost all of us made it 8 seconds on the mechanical bull- oh, did I not mention there was a mechanical bull?  There was.  And one of us was in a dress.

It was a magical, magical night.  

Nights like Cinco de Mayo '08 and St Patrick's Day '09 (in Vegas, aka very interesting) make me wish I was of Mexican, or Irish decent, so that I could feel a little more legitimate and a little less of a cheap drunk when I celebrate with such ferocity.

Someday I will probably celebrate Cinco de Mayo how it's supposed to be celebrated... which is, uh... Well, to be truthful, I have no idea what the fuck Cinco de Mayo is.  

So until I figure that out, I guess I'll be down at the bar with a $7 bucket of Dos Equis and a few shots of Pancho Villa.  

¡VIVA LA REVOLUCION!

deceptions learned

Liar, liar, pants on fire, hanging on a telephone wire...

Well, if only that were true.  What a sight to behold, eh?  All the truth-impaired individuals, strung up by their Levi's, set a blaze with the fury of 'truthiness' everywhere...

The problem is, if we were all set on fire every time we told a fib, well, we'd all be casket crispies, spending the afterlife with millions of other burnt up tricksters.

For many of us, Santa was one of the biggest lies perpetuated to us in our youth.  There are literally thousands (or at least 3) lies that stem directly from the winter holidays.  

Be good, because Santa is watching you, and if you're good, he'll bring you presents!!  And we all love presents, don't we?  

It's better to give than to receive...  Sure, sure, where are my presents?  

It's the thought that counts.  What the fuck were you thinking when you bought me this ridiculous sweater?  I got you an iPod!?!

We're saddled with the thoughts that our eyes will stay crossed, that the Boogie Man may or may not be in our closet, and that our permanent record will surely be our undoing.  It doesn't take a lot of brain power to determine that eyes don't just stay crossed- you have to like, get hit in the head really hard or something.  And if he was anywhere, the Boogie Man would probably be under our beds.  Don't even get me started about permanent records...  Whoever started that one needs a swift kick to the shin.

When my mother was 5 or so, she had a babysitter who was especially practiced in the art of deception.  She found my mother in her parents room, putting on lipstick.  The babysitter looked at her, with what I can only assume was annoyance/sheer brilliance, and said this:

"You shouldn't have done that, Becky."

"Why?" My mom asked, terror-stricken.

"Lipstick is poison for little girls.  That's why they're not supposed to use it.  Now you're probably going to die."  

My mother put down the lipstick, devastated.  She went to her room, turned off the light, got under her covers, and waited to die.

The worst thing I ever did to a kid while baby-sitting was try and convince him that his name was spelled, "B-U-T-T-H-E-A-D".  Amateur.

I learned from my parents and other relatives to lie for two reasons, and two reasons only: to spare someone their feelings/sanity, or because it's funny when you get away with it.

I was in a play in first grade about dinosaurs, and I had two parts.  I was an Ankylosaurus (which I pronounced ankle-o-sore-us), and T-Rex.  I had a removable head piece that was fastened with velcro, and I had many lines (probably about 7) to remember and deliver with conviction.  After our first, last and only showing, I rode the bus home with fellow students and dinosaurs alike.  One boy, whom we shall call Duke Matchbord, was being an especially tough critic.  He was a fifth grader, whom I had my eye on, and was insanely cool and cute and wonderful.  But he thought the play was lame-to-the-extreme, as all 9 year olds would, because they're too good for everything and everyone.

But I digress.  So Duke didn't like the play... Well, there was really nothing I could do about that.  The next day in class, I felt the need to tell my fellow Rm 4 comrades of my brush with greatness/defeat.  For some reason I found myself in front of the class, crying, about the harsh words Duke had for us.  

I wailed, "and he said... he said, he hated the ankle-y one the most!!!!!!"

He didn't.  

I don't know why I said that.  I've been a liar and drama queen from birth, and while I don't know why that is... I have theories.

As a young child, I would frequent my grandparents pool in the summertime.  On one very special occasion, my cousin and I noticed that our grandfather had a rather large scar on his stomach.

"Grandpa, what is that?" I asked, or my cousin asked.  It guess it doesn't really matter.  One of us asked it, of that I am sure.

"This?  Oh, well kids, this here is where a bayonet sliced me during the Revolutionary War."

We looked at him, wide eyed with wonder.  Wow!  A bayonet wound.  From the Revolutionary War?!  We had no reason to distrust this wonderful man, as he would never beguile us with falsities of heroic wartime acts!

Who would lie about that?

My Grandpa, evidently.  It took me until our Revolutionary War unit in 4th grade to really question his authority, and wonder exactly how he could be 240 years old, while my Grandma was only 37...  Wait a minute?  She was lying too!

And we wonder how I turned out this way.

things I'll miss about college-

There are a few things, the majority of which deal with the over-consumption of alcohol and other substances, that run rampant in a college town.  With graduation nearing, I've compiled a short, sweet little list of some of the things that are near and dear to me... things that will be sorely missed when I leave Pullman for the real world.

1. The lack of children.  There aren't a lot of pre-teens running around campus, which makes me immensely happy.  Also a little sad, because I think they'd have a hell of a time at a kegger.

2.  The morning of November 1st.  There's nothing funnier than seeing slutty Tinkerbell, slutty Bo Peep or slutty anything-you-can-think-of wandering the streets, hair mussed and stilettos in hand.  It's satisfying to know that while you're on your way to class, they're pretty much on their way to hell.  Though, it's a little less funny when people are staring at you, still dressed in your Dorothy outfit, dragging a stuffed Toto and ruby red slippers across the parking lot, face full of shame and regret...

3.  Remembering your night in increments.

12:00 PM, waking up after a particularly rough Saturday night-  What a night!!  Drinking, fun with the friends, laughing, dancing.  I love college.

1:30 PM, flipping through your history book-   Oh my God, did I do a keg stand last night!  Yep, pretty sure I did.  I wonder how long I lasted?  I hope no one saw up my skirt...  Ha, who cares, I was wearing underwear.  I think...

2:06 PM, watching an episode of Weeds-  Wait, did I smoke weed last night?  Yeah, I think I remember that...  All in a good night!

3:15 PM, picking your belongings up off of the floor, where you threw them last night-  Why is my camera all scratched?  Shit, I totally fell down the stairs again, didn't I?  At least it didn't leave marks this time...  

4:10 PM, taking a shower-  Wait, what are all these bruises from?  Ugh, stairs.  

5:31 PM, loading a new Facebook album-  Ha, look at all of them dancing on the poles!  Sluts.  I'm glad I wasn't that out of control.

5:40 PM, Facebook notification-  I'm tagged in a video?  Oh, it's last night!  Wait, what am I... oh God.  Why am I on the pole?  Why am I upside down?  And I'm in a skirt, great.  Oh fuck, there's my underwear.

4. The thrill of playing textbook Russian Roulette.  To buy, or not to buy.  Sure, you can be one of those kids who orders all their books before the semester starts and has them waiting for them the weekend before class... but really, who does that?  Instead, I think it's fun to not buy the book until you absolutely have to.  Like the night before the assignments due.  Yeah, ok, you might get screwed and the book might be sold out... but on the bright side, you might go the whole semester without ever needing said book...  Then you won't feel so guilty for spending your book money on cheap vodka and cigarettes.

5.  Being a guest in your own home.  Who doesn't love going home and having Mom and Dad fawn all over you, cooking your favorite foods, making your bed and whatnot?  Their happiness to see you usually wears off around 9 PM when you decide you'd rather go drinking with your friends at a local pub than play Scrabble, but hey.  It was fun while it lasted.  Also- free laundry.

6.  There is an abundance of people your age.  No matter your taste or sexual preference, there are quite literally thousands of students to pique your interest.  You like the athletic boys?  Join the ranks of some of the nations best jersey chasers by hanging around the gym in your cutest Pink! sweats, or frequent the football/basketball/baseball parties, hair teased and heels high.  Athletes not your style?  Try the frat-tastic jackasses on Greek Row.  They're the ones wearing the matching sweatshirts, or flamboyantly colored Polos and A&F tees, laughing and yelling and reveling in each other's magnificence.  More into the Goth culture?  I'm sure they hang around the art building, or something...

7.  There's always the possibility of being part of a deep conversation.  You haven't lived until you've discussed what Neitzsche really meant when he said, "God is dead," at 3 in the morning, with your roommates shacking buddy, after 6 beers and 3 vodka crans.   Oh, the enlightenment.

8.  You have no real responsibilities.  Sure, you might have a part time job, and yeah, your calculus class is probably pretty rough, but largely, life is good.  If you mess up on someone's order of Clucks and Fries, no one's going to die.  And if you fail calc?  Take it again.  Oh, you've already failed it once?  Perhaps you should try a less strenuous major, like General Studies.  And maybe pick up some extra shifts at Red Robin...

9.  You can drink excessively, act like a total ass, and no one's judging.  When else in life is it socially acceptable to drink until you are impaired in almost every plane of existence?  I'll tell you where, no where!  Unless you were raised by a bunch of alcoholics, in which case, Thirsty Thursdays are nothing but a review.  In college, people pay no attention to the idiot falling down the stairs, stumbling around, pushing and groping unsuspecting passersby.  Who's that?  Oh, that's Billy.  He shot-gunned like, 8 beers an hour ago.  Fucking awesome, right?  Next he's gonna beer bong a fifth of Jack!  Epic!!!

10.  I was drunk, is always a valid excuse.  This won't work forever, but for now, you can explain to your roommates that you didn't do the dishes, because you were drunk.  To your partners in econ, you can explain that while you started your part of the paper, you didn't finish it, because you were drunk.  You said something offensive to your friend?  Well, you were really drunk, so, actually, you didn't mean it.  People won't always like this answer, but they'll sure as hell respect it.  But I'm betting your boss, your spouse, and your children will not be so understanding...

technology is failing me.

I am getting old. At the used-to-be-tender age of 21, I have decided to throw in the towel and let the rest of the world pass me by.

I'm trying to embrace the fact that I'll just be one of those crotchety old people who doesn't know an iPhone from a Fuji, or Gala. Or, more appropriately, a Granny Smith. When is the age that we stop keeping up with the Jones', and instead spend the bulk of our time trying to understand why the damn commercials are so loud?

A while back, a group of friends (more like classmates and other people I don't like, minus Kaylee, who sometimes I do like) were talking about Flo Rida. Not hearing the emphatic space between flo and rida (loss of hearing is also a sign of old age...) I misunderstood their entire conversation. Butting in, I said,

"Yeah, well, I've been there once. Orlando though, I only went to Disney World."

Kaylee looked at me with confusion, and then what I can only assume was pity.

"We're talking about Flo Rida. The rapper? You know, 'then shorty got low, low, low...' Not the state of Florida."

Was this just the first of many egregious errors I am to make as a person who is no longer as technically, or pop culturally savvy as I once was? Oh, the horror.

I was watching The View the other day, and was accosted by a segment about teens and Facebook. And texting. And MySpace. And whatever the hell else that's out there corrupting the young minds of today. They were throwing out acronyms like, PIR (parent in room), MTFBWY (may the force be with you... ha, ha, ha.) and TDTM (talk dirty to me)... which all made me want to say, WTF? When did I grow up, and how did I get so far out of the loop???

To get back in said loop, I recently created a Twitter account. And by recent, I mean today. About an hour ago. I created it mainly because my two roommates and I had no fucking clue what a "Twitter" was. I have to admit, I'm still a little bit foggy about the whole ordeal.

It seems to me that it's a site full of Facebook Minifeed updates.

So-and-so is watching the Grammy's, and thinks M.I.A. might give birth right in the middle of her swaggering.

Why the hell would anyone want to use a site like this? And who really cares?

We brought in the AIM, Facebook, and Tomagatchi generation, and now, we're being surpassed by the throngs of children who 'Tweet', who text rather than converse, and who use the word like as a noun, pronoun, verb and adjective, which is far trickier than it seems.

Standing in line behind a woman at Safeway the other day, I watched as she tried to use a coupon for her Prilosec OTC purchase. The cashier informed her that she had to go online to input some information to receive the discount. The woman handed back the coupon, as well as the acid reflux pills, and shook her head angrily.

"I don't have a computer. Nevermind," she said, gathering her purse as she left.

What?!? How does she check her e-mail? How does she peruse E-Bay for discount tea kettles and vintage sunglasses? How does she live??!!?

Then it came to me. She, like me, must have given up on technology sometime in her twenties. The roaring 50's took their toll, and she just couldn't fathom using electricity and driving a car without a crank lever...

Kidding aside, I feel her pain. It happens to the best of us. In her youth, Gertrude (as we will refer to her) was probably all a twitter (excuse the blatant pun) with the excitement of the hydrogen bomb and birth control, when the subsequent development credit cards and polio vaccine threw her for a loop. Too much, too soon...

My days of being up-and-coming on the tech scene, much like Gerty, are past. I'll forever show my age by using phrases like "Do you have cable?" or using the seldom heard proper terms, 'cellular phone' or 'text message'... or even asking the rarely uttered, "Can I write a check?".

Yep, my youth is gone.

Dag nabbit.