girlfriday

Joy Unspeakable and Full of Glory

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 15 Oct 2012 04:34:00 +0000

Responding to an invitation I spent Saturday afternoon driving two three year olds and an infant (we followed a young friend of mine, herself towing two 12 year olds and her infant son--and in a matching Toyota Sienna no less. Living it up in suburbia!) out to the beautiful Sand Lake Wildlife Refuge for "Blue Goose Weekend."

The event is traditionally called Eagle Day and occurs in the spring, but after the region experienced flooding for three years in a row, Fish and Wildlife moved the event to the fall. In a sad reversal, huge swaths of Sand Lake are giant dust bowls after a mild winter and a summer with almost no rain.

Not sure what to expect, I was relieved to see a wading pool with turtles and fresh water mollusks for the kids to touch. For them not to touch was a snapping turtle in the adjacent pool. He was aggressively trying to get out of the makeshift cage that covered his temporary home. "What does he eat?" I asked. "Anything that gets in his mouth, pretty much" was the chilling answer.

After a few minutes of looking at native fish on display and touching turtles, we heard an announcement that there would be a release of Golden Eagles into the wild.

The crowd moved as one nearer to the Lake's edge. From the back of a yellow SUV, a bearded man and this lovely but serious-looking woman removed the first Eagle. I am still amazed at how without any kind of protective clothing or gloves she was able to safely maneuver the bird out of the box and keep it in her arms. Take a look.

As she moved slowly along the length of the semi-circle she extended one of the wings. The children, without too much noise, stepped forward and stroked in reverential awe. Finally she asked everyone to move away, and we waited.

I was totally unprepared for the emotional response that the release of that noble bird elicited from me. Without warning there was a lump in my throat. In a moment I knew viscerally the meaning of a word that had so far been only a word: transfixed. Even as I type this, I can't say I remember holding my daughter or knowing that my son was sitting near me on the ground.

For the better part of a day and a half I've been asking myself where all that joy came from. I may have an unusual love of birds and I've seen many raptors, but what made that moment so special? Truthfully I think I'd rather remember and enjoy than understand, but perhaps it's because understanding is so difficult.

In addition to the obvious, namely that I was within five feet of a bird we never get to see up close if at all, I think it had something to do with sharing with others a rare glimpse at Perfection. The emotion was palatable as the Eagle, once injured and interned and now free, reverted to its inspired instinct, knowing instantly that it was at liberty to do what it was created to do. Scattered applause from others told me that they were feeling the same. A man's voice somewhere near said, "Be free." I suspect we wanted to fly away too.

And the human person had done it. We were at our best as we rescued, healed and released. There was no violence, no grandstanding, not even a hint of "progress." Everything was as it should be. Maybe we knew it and rejoiced.

The Now and the Not Yet

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 03:07:00 +0000

With every passing day the conviction grows that I will never reach the place of "getting it together." When the house is clean and the children are happy I neglect some crucial discipline like prayer. When it feels like the roof is falling in I pray and the dishes pile up. A new week begins and with it a new resolve. By Friday my to-do list is half done and I'm looking forward to a new week to start over again and get it right. This time I'll get it right. Surely.

I'm never going to get it right. Slowly I'm starting to embrace this and it helps. It helps to know that the puzzle pieces will never fit. As long as the world is topsy turvy so am I.

Crib Training

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 09 Aug 2012 03:42:00 +0000

Cry your heart out little one. I will be strong. It means you are alive, you're mine and everything's working.

Empty Nest

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Sat, 07 Jul 2012 03:45:00 +0000

Are you keeping up? I first blogged here about the Northern Cardinals nesting just outside our living room window.

First glimpse at the hatchlings

Taking these photos was terrifying.
I had to take them without being able to see what I was doing and the thought that I'd drop the camera on their tiny heads was a very real fear. Couldn't get the auto focus to work for me either.

Can you tell that they're bigger? I love those eager little mouths.

They eventually settled down when they realized that rustling of the leaves was not their mother.

It's rare we get to see both the male and female Cardinals on the feeder at the same time. My young son likes to scare them away by tapping on the screen door. My annoyance turned into my joy when I saw what I'd captured.

My mom snapped this one. One day they were in their nest, the next day they were out. They scattered around the shrubs and amber maples in the front of our house. I trembled for them since they couldn't fly, especially the little guy that perched for a day or two on the bottom branch, just inches from the ground.

My son holds the empty nest, which we did not disturb until they were long gone. We heard them "migrate" around the perimeter of our house, listening closely to the high-pitched chirp that indicates a chick. I never seemed to hear more than two but I haven't seen any feathers to indicate that one of them didn't make it. Still, I suspect one did not. The whole family stopped by last week and I counted four in total. There was a bit of plastic, a rotting corn husk from the compost (maybe?), even a moth wing. A bird's nest is a thing of beauty.

Fare Thee Well, Era

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 04 Jun 2012 19:47:00 +0000

This weekend my youngest sister is getting married in a civil ceremony in Texas. About a month and a half later we're throwing a big reception in her hometown. This is the last sister, the last sibling in fact, to get married.

It's really hitting me. I didn't think we'd be done with weddings for a long time. I don't know what I thought: that there was a long train of yet unknown brothers and sisters still to get married? Or that our spouses would (God forbid) die or even worse that there isn't some kind of permanence to our marriages, and we would do it over again.

I just didn't think about all of us, grown up, blowing a kiss to our childhood as we watch her march down the aisle.

We don't fight anymore (much). There is no more competing for dominance or bathrooms. My brother hasn't thrown a hairbrush at my head since at least 1989. Even, and most grievously, a lifelong nickname seems to be in its twilight.

Shouldn't someone always be "there" (single? under 30? wildly inappropriate and immature? I'm not sure what I mean by "there.") to remind us that we were kids together and had been a cohesive unit? That the four of us were the original family that branched off and started little seedling families? I thought there would be.

I don't feel like I have enough hugs to give that last vestige of our youth before she puts on that white dress.

It takes a village to raise a mother

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Sat, 12 May 2012 22:00:00 +0000

It wasn't until after my sister in law convinced me that it really does take a village to raise a child that I realized it takes a village to do a lot of things.

Growing up I had one model for motherhood. Now I have many, not the least of which are my peers. These are the women who hold my children while I cook, knit blankets and socks for them, speak constructively into their lives, offer a rebuke when necessary.

This mother's day, I extend my heart in loving gratitude to every woman who has nudged me through word and example into being a better mother.

Hope is the thing with feathers

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 02 May 2012 02:36:00 +0000

When you live on the Northern Plains it's almost inevitable that you become an amateur ornithologist. I've always liked seeing wild animals (growing up it was limited mostly to roadkill), but now it's become something of a passion.

"Bird watching," when you read it as a hobby in the obituaries of old women (God bless them), sounds like the very definition of living a small life. I know better. Bird watching is knowing that when the American Robin appears, spring is really here. It's recognizing the difference between the call of the Chickadee, the Northern Cardinal, the Robin, and the Blue Jay and wishing you knew the subtle differences for all the song birds.

It's standing outside a friend's door at 10 PM, necks craning, watching thousands of Snow Geese pass overhead, migrating to Canada for the summer. It's running for the camera when a huge raptor is lounging on your patio. It's flipping through the bird book to identify the squat little bird with a distinctive beak, black feathers and a red breast (Red Breasted Grosbeak).

Now, joy of joys, Mister and Missus Cardnial as we affectionately call them, have built a nest not more than a yard outside our front window. Though it's just inches from our front door, it's totally invisible from every angle except from my living room.

Naturally I'm torn between being a nature terrorist and a peaceable observer.

Just now I can spy the orange beak and arched tail feathers of little mama bird, but so far I've resisted the urge to photograph her. When she was away (in my backyard feeding on safflower?) I snapped a couple quick photos of the nest and three tiny, speckled eggs.

Oh brave little bird! You're as safe as you will ever be. No beast or bird of prey will come this close to our home and as much as it's in my power, I'll protect you.

Do This in Remembrance

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 02:17:00 +0000

I just finished reading an excellent about homeschooling and community. It was lovely; I hope our local homeschooling co-op can live up to it. There are signs that it does and can.

The ensuing comments are exactly what you expect and mostly good, but they trouble me. In the same way that I trouble myself.

I really like to hear myself talk.

You can listen to me talk about good food, gardening at home, breastfeeding, spanking, reading, sex, martinis, smoking. And homeschooling. And community. And if I can show off my kids, even better.

Tonight in church though, I remembered that it's Christ first, everything else a distant second. You can eat McDonald's every day, reject fresh veggies, give your kid a bottle, sit your naughty boy in a chair for "time out," abstain from sex, martinis and cigars. You can even send your kid to the ugliest, most institutional elementary school in a ghetto. And Christ can still find you, save you, heal you. He can create community among failed parents, troubled teenagers, weirdos, the very rich.

So if I focus on any of those things before I let you listen to me talk about Christ, I fail. Or if I get to talk to you about them and you don't hear Christ at all, I fail. Or worse (and most likely), I talk about Christ but hold you in contempt because you don't share my extra-biblical values. Fail.

Don't do life in remembrance of shared values, opinions or options. Do life in memory of Christ. Share Christ. And if you get the rest thrown in, thanks be to God.

Cake-Making Envy

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 04:19:00 +0000

The list of things I am not-willing-to-learn-or-generate-the-desire-for-and-instead-say-I-cannot-do is long and includes running a marathon, being on time, and baking a cake that will be the envy of your neighborhood.

Three people I love can do at least one of these things.

Guess which of them Christy can do.

{Not} Talking Behind My Back or Even to My Face

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 04:03:00 +0000

Our own "elphaba," sometime in the last decade, has started her own blog. She neglected to tell me and maybe you too.

Our loss.

She is really, really funny. If you are alive, a woman and live in a house, it's not possible that you won't laugh at her latest post. Go there now. It will do wonders for your otherwise crappy day.

Talking Behind My Own Back

Banana Chocolate Chip Bread that I didn't screw up

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 14:57:00 +0000

When my daughter was born, the amazing woman who took my son in a pinch (contractions were about a minute apart when I left the house) made some banana chocolate chip bread that I devoured after delivery.

The memory of that bread has haunted me.

I finally got around to attempting it myself. I couldn't get a hold of her to compare recipes, so I went with Rachael Ray's version and modified it. On other sites, users mentioned adding milk, lemon juice and vanilla. And I added a little baking powder for good measure. And I cut down on the sugar and chocolate chips.

So I modified it a lot.

No baker, I'm always surprised when something I have to put in the oven actually turns out. It's excellent.

Here's the recipe and here's the link.

INGREDIENTS

1/4 cup vegetable oil
1 1/2 cups flour
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
2 eggs, lightly beaten
3 bananas, mashed (1 cup mashed banana)
1 cup chocolate chips

PREPARATION

Pre-heat the oven to 350°F .

Grease and flour a 8 1/2-inch x 4 1/2-inch loaf pan (or use baking spray, such as Baker's Joy brand).

In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, salt, sugar, baking soda and salt. Mix in the oil, bananas and eggs. Stir in the chocolate chips (do not overmix!) and pour into the prepared pan. Bake until a toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean, about 70-80 minutes.

Cool the loaf in the pan for 10 minutes, then turn out and cool completely, right side up.

Sense and Sensibility

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 12 Apr 2012 17:05:00 +0000

If any of you have any clue how to manage (balance, juggle, restrain) these two quarreling beasts, I am listening.

Why not?

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 15:48:00 +0000

Consumed by the Hunger Games

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 15:38:00 +0000

It happened.

I read it.

I'm captivated.

The best part? Both of my sisters and my husband have blazed through the first book within a couple weeks of each other. Yes, my sisters and my husband are reading the same books at the same time.

This has never happened, and I think I can say with confidence that it will never happen again.

Confusion, Dismay and Hypocrisy

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 13:48:00 +0000

This is what Planned Parenthood prefaces its message with to those supporters whose senators voted in favor of the Blunt Amendment.

After weeks of debate and an enormous outcry from Planned Parenthood supporters nationwide, the Senate rejected the Blunt amendment, a measure that would have allowed any employer to deny women who work for them insurance coverage for birth control and other essential health benefits if the employer had a moral or religious objection. The message is clear: birth control is basic health care, and your medical decisions should be between you and your doctor.

No, Planned Parenthood, you DON'T believe medical decisions should be between you and your doctor. You want to include all of us right down to our wallets.

It's not enough that your organization provides birth control virtually free and clear to women who present in your clinic. You're not satisfied that women have almost unlimited access to abortion at any stage of pregnancy if the doctor can argue that the health (including mental health) of the mother is in danger. You want your boss, even if she opposes it to her core, to pay for your birth control.

This is a kind of religious fanaticism, conversion at sword's point.

Preserving What?

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 16:41:00 +0000

One of the joys of my adult life is that I married a man who, in addition to great calves, has great understanding. I am always learning from him. In politics especially he is very temperate, very thoughtful, whereas I tend toward extremes.

A recent challenge came from his column in the Abereen American News.

This paragraph was particularly striking to this stick-in-the-mud conservative that I often am:

"We often look at the arts and humanities as luxuries. This is especially odd coming from so-called conservatives who sometimes deride these subjects because of their lack of economic utility. But what precisely are we conserving if not our culture and civilization? And if the arts are important to the cultivation of our souls, thus the cultivation of virtue, should not those who worry about cultural decline advocate hardest for the promotion of the best in the arts?"

But what precisely are we conserving if not our culture and civilization?

That struck me to the core. How do we raise our children to be somewhere between robotic-like fascists and lovers of those squishy, voyeuristic excuses for art that are so popular today?

Enjoying One of My Life's Little Pleasures...Again

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 14:14:00 +0000

I recently started trying Caribou Coffee blends and since then I've stopped buying Starbucks. Once again I can look forward to that hot cup of goodness, which is what coffee should be all about. It should be delicious, not merely something hot and dark to get you through a biology test cram session.

My conclusion is that Starbucks is harder to get right. And when it's not, it's bitter. I just seem to have more latitude with Caribou coffee. I can't say why that is, but I don't really care. Drinking coffee is a joy again.

Transition: My path to natural labor

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 02:50:00 +0000

Two weeks ago today I gave birth to a darling baby girl. She arrived in three short and (two) agonizing hours of labor. Now I know I am capable of giving birth naturally when six months ago I knew almost nothing about natural childbirth.

Our firstborn came after 19 hours of difficult and frightening labor. I yielded to every intervention short of a c-section. The waterfall of intervention one of my friends calls it. The doctor started a Pitocin drip around 7 AM. After six or seven hours I took some narcotics that rather than giving me some rest made me loopy. (Half conscious and calling my husband a name is funny memory though.) Essentially stuck in bed and (on my back most of the time) as a result of fetal heart monitors the doctor requires with the administration of Pitocin, I couldn't work through the growing pain. An epidural that only half-worked was next and it was dimness and fear and even pain for the hours that followed. Insensible to the pressure of my contractions I had to ask when to push. In the end, with the help of an episiotomy and vacuum extractors, my son appeared.

It was days before I recovered from the shock. I've blogged a little about that here. It's still true that I'd do it again...and more...to bring him into the world. But I didn't want to do it that way ever again.

It turns out many women share my experience with that labor and delivery: tons of medical intervention, confusion, disappointment, disillusionment. Uninformed, untrained and unhelped by their providers. Consequently they determined not to let history repeat itself.

My first indication that something was simply wrong, that there must be real alternatives to my experience, was the total lack of information about the consequences of induction. How is it logical to lie on your back, hooked up to a machine, when you are going to try to manage intense pain that is naturally relieved through walking, bathing or other movement? I was on my way.

Through a little bit of reading and lots of conversations with women, I began to understand that birth is a natural process not a medical procedure. This seems like common sense as I write it, but it was novel to me: Women should have the opportunity to let their instincts and their body's natural process guide them. Pitocin and comfort measures can interfere with this process, sometimes on a huge scale. For the most part, babies should be born on their own schedule, not the doctor's (or yours!).

My mom was the first person I recollect inspiring me to a natural birth. And this year a number of strong-willed friends unconsciously inspired me with their stories. From delivering a ten-pound baby without the aid of an epidural to a home birth with a midwife that produced a little girl after 40 plus hours, every story nudged me toward a natural birth. One friend even said with her usual frankness, "It's not like you're not going to die!" when I suggested that I couldn't handle the pain.

And finally a friend working on her doula certification urged me to use a doula. (A doula is a trained labor coach who, statistically, helps reduce the number of medical interventions during labor.) She went the extra mile and hunted down the name of a woman working locally. Initially I scoffed at the idea of a stranger helping me through what is a very private process. After reflection I realized a labor coach wouldn't be any more of a stranger to me than a roomful of nurses and a doctor that I know, if at all, only on a professional basis! Someone found her for me, and she turned out to be a godsend. Sensible, calm and empathetic I knew she would be a good fit. My husband liked her too, which was important to me for obvious reasons.

And without those two I wouldn't have succeeded.

The pain was mind-bending. Active labor lasted only three hours, two of which included back labor (the baby was posterior). This meant I had little relief between contractions. Crouched on all-fours, I didn't think I could move, but with the help of a highly skilled and persuasive nurse, they talked me into getting into the warm, deep jacuzzi tub. It helped. Every attention was paid to me; concessions were made; suggestions offered. None of these worked their magic like the calm I think you can response to my "I can't do it!"

In the end I didn't feel like I achieved a natural birth so much as it was achieved on my behalf by my husband and my doula. They fought for my birth plan by gently resisting my attempts to cave. Stick to the plan. You can do it. You're progressing nicely. Right down to her blessedly cold hands, which I sometimes found myself unconsciously clinging to, my doula did exactly what she was trained to do: advocate for me against me.

And my husband is my hero.

With my son's eventual birth, it was shock and confusion. I couldn't get up. I couldn't hold him. I missed his first bath. I resented the pain I'd undergone. This time relief and elation were immediate. It was over and she was here. I had undreamt of energy. The baby was in my arms immediately. I held her for hours before we gave her a bath. Photos of us in the hospital show me in my own shirt and blessedly free from wires and tubes.

After just a day, the memory of the pain was already fading to black and white. We left the hospital the next day, relatively strong and rested. I remarked on this incredible difference to my doula and she said it's amazing how we can feel when we don't have a bunch of drugs in our system. Combine that with an incredible sense of awe and accomplishment and you begin to understand why some women value a natural birth so highly.

It's best not to lie about these things: Labor is painful and not sexy or beautiful in the conventional sense of the word. Next time around I'll probably long for the epidural again. I'll whine that I can't do it. (More children? Never! Natural childbirth? Crazy talk!) An epidural might ease the pain, which is not nothing, but it might also prolong labor and result in unwelcome medical interventions. These things can, as they did in my case, lead to regret.

Today I am still on a high from the outcome. It was unspeakably difficult and painful but the reward was instant and long-term joy. No regrets. No bad memories. No fear. My body did its job and now I know that it can.

The Now and the Not Yet

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 03:46:00 +0000

A friend of mine recently spotted the huge, laminated bank check made out to the nonprofit I used to manage. It's perched conspicuously on a shelf in our garage. What was it about, she wondered.

"I can't get rid of it. I'm so proud of the money I raised." And then I found myself nearly adding, "Believe it or not I used to do something productive and worthwhile in this world."

The implication of that unspoken thought...I shudder.

Today I am parenting a toddler and nurturing a future toddler in my womb.

Instead of clinic management it's whether or not to read a book, do "crafts" or schedule a play date that consumes my thought life. No more the preoccupation with soliciting our piece of the financial pie by positioning our small clinic as crucial to the health and welfare of Idaho's underserved. Brain development, spiritual development, physical development, and when my next nap is coming: these preoccupy my time.

I'd join the chorus of "moms have thankless jobs" except it isn't true. We know instinctively that we're doing something important and the thanks we get are the chubby, outstretched arms, the attentive look, the shared laugh. No one else snuggles with me the way my son does.

Knowing this, I still felt the tug to my old life and all its attractions and tangible rewards. In my secret soul, it felt like more productive work than marriage and parenting. My feelings (sight) was bumping right up against my faith. I suppose that rubbing will go on as long as I walk this earth in these shoes.

The Secret of the "Poor"

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 07 Oct 2011 17:11:00 +0000

A funny thing happened in a casual email.

This week my brother started an email thread about the new Nampa (ID) chief of police, LeRoy Forsman, a man one of my parents taught in Sunday School roughly 200 years ago.

That email quickly turned into a series of "Remember whens" between us kids and our folks. The conversation centered around the four or five years we lived in a trailer.

Yep, we lived in a trailer. Two of them in fact. And those years compose some of the happiest memories of my life.

"Remember when we camped outside and listened to "Wind in the Willows" on the tape deck?"

"Remember when we had been warned there wasn't much money for Christmas, but mom and dad still managed to give us each a huge, warm fuzzy blanket that we still cherish today?"

"Remember when this sister fell down the stairs and had to have stitches or this brother was chased screaming back home by a horde of angry wasps or the baby would walk around with her thumb in her mouth and her hand in her diaper?"

Eventually we stopped camping outside. Our new house didn't have air conditioning, but we were spread out into different rooms so no more nights of mom spraying a mist of water over us and telling us to imagine we were at the beach. Four bedrooms meant I didn't have to share a room with my little sisters any more. We got older and started babysitting and mowing lawns and giving our own gifts at Christmas, many of them forgettable plastic trinkets.

When we got more, we lost something. So why have I been preoccupied with my own "stuff"? A new piece of art, shelving for all our books, storage for the baby's clothes, even a new house? I ought to be re-learning how to make much out of, well, quite a bit. I can't really say we have "little" especially compared to what we had those five years.

Our family shouldn't need a lot to build a happy home and create a memorably happy childhood for our kids. The trailer park stories are my evidence.

When we had nothing, we had it all.

girlfriday: Check your familiarity at the door

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 16:18:00 +0000

"Familiarity Breeds Contempt."

I've always thought this translated that if you got too comfortable around folk you would come to resent them.

What if it means instead that to treat people in a too-familiar manner is to breed contempt?

You don't have to belong to the Dear Sirs crowd but email leaves us especially vulnerable to the temptation of over familiarity.

I have some whoppers of examples. Do you?

The Truth?

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Fri, 24 Jun 2011 03:36:00 +0000

I love that my husband is such a man's man that it's a constant struggle getting grease and dirt stains out of his nice slacks.

If I were to lose him, I'd miss his refusal to try anything new in the way of toothpaste, shaving cream or shampoo.

I'm happy that he's not a woman. I didn't marry a woman. I married a man and even if I harumph around, I wouldn't have it any other way.

noreply@blogger.com (girlfriday) — Wed, 06 Apr 2011 03:18:00 +0000

Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.

Look for my triumphant return in coming days.

your

girl friday

Where did everyone go, and other points of contention...

noreply@blogger.com (Snarky the Moonbat) — Tue, 14 Sep 2010 14:25:00 +0000

When last I visited the Good Ship Girlfriday, there were people bustling about on deck, brass was being shined, and the enlisted was busy sucking up to management. Maybe that was just me. I get confused sometimes.

So, anyway, after entirely too long an absence, I wandered back aboard, shamefaced, prepared to take my lashings like a man (ok, fine. I was going to whimper like a scolded Great Dane), only to discover, well, a ghost ship.

I heard the creaking up in the rigging. I heard the tinny sound of girlfriday's radio blaring away in her cabin, tuned to some random 80's rock station. I heard the slopping and sloshing of water in the bilges. And I heard an assortment of birds, gathered in a cluster on the poop deck (yes, I liked writing "poop deck") and talking smack about Keith Olbermann.

But there is no one here. Le sigh.

Without going into a lot of stupid reasons why (ok, it was mostly simple convenience), I had taken to ranting on Facebook when I had something disputatious to say. What I have concluded, however, is that FB really isn't the place for that sort of thing. I discovered this when I found myself annoyed at something someone else had posted...and then wondered who might be annoyed with something that I had posted. So. I have resolved to cease ranting on Facebook and have resumed ranting over at Moonbat Central, my old and sadly neglected blog. I came back aboard here to tell everyone, but there was no one here to tell.

Instead, I spent some time communing with the birds, learned a few new things about Mr. CrazyRants that have to do with his medications and the lack of supervision regarding their consumption, and decided to leave this note, pinned to the wheel.

Oh. And I ate the cheesecake that girlfriday had hidden in the freezer behind the frozen hash browns. Should have taken it with you or hidden it better, 'cause it was GOOD.

So, anyway, if any of you wander on board here, come on by and see me at Moonbatville. I shall endeavor to be both interesting and annoying. You know. As usual.

Pro-Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (elphaba) — Thu, 03 Jun 2010 16:57:00 +0000

I had no idea GF wrote her last post, when I decided to pimp out facebook and praise its virtues.

I agree that it is all how you use and/or abuse it. In this case I used it to record my son opening a present from an out of state relative so that she could see it happening. This is, in my opinion, the BEST use of facebook. It helps you stay easily connected with folks that you rarely ever see. They can participate in the minutia of your life - the parts that are little but make you feel involved and the major events as well. Do these cyber interactions blot out some more traditional and arguably more thoughtful correspondence? (snail mail, phone calls, etc.) Yes, but the benefits outweigh the deficits.

For example.. I will get probably get about 4 actual birthday cards today, but I will also get about 10 times that in facebook birthday greetings. Plus, I am, by nature, far too bogged down in what I should ideally be doing anyway, so then I can tend to constantly live in a shroud of guilt about what I think I should do versus what I can realistically do. Facebook helps me at least extend a birthday greeting on that person's wall and then maybe send a late card, instead of nothing at all. Is that a "give them condoms because they are going to have sex" argument? Ha ha.
All that said.....this one's for you, Aunt Vicki!