It’s an icy day here. The view from my window is lovely, if treacherous. To get pictures from the other side of the window screen, I ventured outside.
It’s cold . . . and icy, which brings me back to where I started.
It’s an icy day here.
“She who goes to sleep with a smart phone at night allows the smart phone to control her life by morning.” ~~ Abraham Lincoln
This really happened. Or most of it did. I can’t speak to the facts vis-à-vis the coin toss. I wasn’t there, unless DNA counts.
Over the past several days, an informal détente seems to have settled into place and now that cooler heads prevail, it’s a good time to share the lesson I have learned, in the hope of helping even one lost soul understand the dangers of sleeping with one’s smart phone too close to the bed.
While I’m not what you’d call an “app” person, I do like my phone’s alarm clock as the solution to a lifelong aversion to the inhumanity of that early morning BUZZZZZ. Instead, I can awaken to pleasant musical tones of my choosing. So, I sleep with the phone on my nightstand. Therein lie certain social dangers.
And so my tale begins.
In an effort to remain relevant, I have adapted to new means of communicating — and therefore validating my existence– in the 21st century. I have a Twitter presence, a Facebook presence, and a LinkedIn account* that I remember to check every couple of months, usually after I get an email that “people are checking out (my) profile,” which, quite frankly, freaks me out. But it’s necessary. Because, you know, relevance and validation.
In addition, after a year and a half of learning how to text message, I realized that it might be the solution to another lifelong aversion: to telephone conversation. When I reached my goal of typing “Hell no, would you’re live kumquats four dime store?” in under 30 minutes, I treated myself to a phone with a QWERTY keyboard, a so-called smart phone, in the hopes that I might eventually communicate, “Hello, would you like to come for dinner?” As we all know by the plethora of failed auto-corrects posted on the Internet, that was but a
sod pipeline sad pipe dream.
Text-messaging isn’t always convenient, so I had every reason to believe that my new car’s BlueTooth would come in handy on occasion. Sadly, this is not the case. BlueTooth and I (we’ll call her “Hedy,” for reasons that later become obvious) don’t have what you would call a “healthy” relationship.
While she doesn’t seem to care for me very much, Hedy does tend to favor one of my children. Specifically, my son. Often, but not all the time, I’ll say, “Call Daughter.” Hedy’s firm, no-nonsense, female voice confirms, “Calling Son.”
I say “Correction. Call Daughter.”
She says, “Calling Son.”
We argue like that until she says (in a huff, I might add), “I’m sorry. I can’t understand your command.” Not only do I think she’s not really sorry, I think she can understand my command perfectly well.
Sometimes her judgmental passive-aggression is more succinct. I say, “Call Chinese Takeout.” She says, “I’m sorry. I can’t understand your command.” Click.
I suppose maybe if you were reading her side of the story, she’d say that just once in a while she’d like Mexican. Maybe if she had her way, we’d be chowing down on chimichangas and swilling margaritas on a regular basis, but only with my son, never my daughter. Which might be why I do not have a Mexican takeout number in my contacts. I will not have her choosing favorites.
You might say things have been strained between us for a while.
Lately signs have surfaced that her passive-aggression has turned to outright aggression, with a sinister Single White Female vibe. And my smart phone is her accomplice. Whether this is by coercion or persuasion is as yet undetermined.
The first occasion was ok. Weird, but ok. Out of the blue, my son texted, “Hey, mom. Why don’t I come over Saturday and we can watch the game together. I’ll come early and we can go to the store for snacks. It’ll be fun.” Like I said: weird, but ok.
We were somewhere in the chip aisle when I couldn’t hold back my curiosity any longer. “So, did you lose a coin toss with your sister over who was going to watch the game with me?”
“Yeah, but it was also that bizarre text you sent us at 3:30 in the morning. What was that all about?”
First, I might have been hurt, but honestly, I’m kind of proud that my son is twenty-something and does not know how to lie to a woman.
But then. . . .
“About how proud you are of us and how much you love us. . . .”
I remember dreaming that I was telling them that, but texting it? Nope. However, evidence suggests that such texts were indeed sent . . . from my phone . . . at about 3:30 a.m..
Hmmm. I haven’t figured out how, but I’m convinced Hedy is behind this.
Not long after that, Hedy went unhinged. Maybe we should’ve invited her to join us for nachos. Anyway. First she refused to call anyone, not even my son, employing her flimsy pretense, “I’m (not really) sorry. I can’t understand your command. Please try again.”
I would try again. She would repeat herself.
I admit to eventually losing my own temper and shouting, “Oh . . . JUST. . . NEVER MIND!” Click.
After a few days of this, things went from bad to worse.
I’d start my car and Hedy would yell, “NO PHONE CONNECTED! YOU ALREADY HAVE FIVE PHONES CONNECTED. PLEASE DELETE A PHONE!”
(I do not have five phones. I have had a lifelong aversion to phones. Owning five would be a personal nightmare. But not my worst personal nightmare. That was yet to come.**)
I’d say, “Whatever,” and would just keep driving, but she kept repeating herself. It was madness. Madness, I tell you.
Eventually, I turned off my phone whenever I drove and Hedy and I stopped communicating altogether. It was sad, but these things happen. I was over it and I thought Hedy was, too.
Apparently, she wasn’t. I awoke one morning a few weeks ago to a troubling mix of pleasant musical tones and absolute panic.
Please let that be a dream. It was just a dream, right? Just a dream. Please, please, PLEASE!!
I had dreamed, as I occasionally do, of a boy I dated in high school. But this time, instead of driving in his car or walking along the boardwalk, I was sending him a LinkedIn connection request. To my surprise, he accepted.
I rushed to my desktop and logged in, desperate for it to be just a dream.
It was not a dream.
“Name Deleted is now a connection.”
I — or “someone on my behalf”– sent a LinkedIn connection request to someone I haven’t seen or talked to in decades. . . .while I was sleeping.
* Real Me has a LinkedIn account. Hippie Cahier does not. Regretfully, Hippie Cahier cannot accept LinkedIn connection requests, because, like Relationship George and Independent George, Real Me and Hippie Cahier cannot co-exist. A hippie divided against herself cannot stand.
** Hey, foreshadowing!
This video is not at all funny. Au contraire. It is R-rated and raw, but it (a) provides some context for those who haven’t seen Birdman and (b) demonstrates why Emma Stone deserved an Oscar:
Like so many others, you’re probably wondering what my position is on Valentine’s Day. I know what some of you are tempted to say in response to that sentence and that’s exactly why I’m not changing it. At this very moment, my position is seated. In a few minutes, it will be upright, and a little later, it will be curled up on the sofa/couch/divan (adjust to your own belief system and home decor).
As to how I feel about Valentine’s Day, for those multitudes among you who breathlessly await that revelation, I shall not delay, not for one more second.
Well, perhaps just this one aside. It seems to me that Valentine’s Day has become as polarizing as any other topic in our culture. That’s the only thing about Valentine’s Day that I dislike. Why do we have to take sides? It’s not Arbor Day, for Pete’s sake.
As with many other topics (except Arbor Day, because I mean, geez, a person has to take a stand sometimes), I can see both sides and find myself pretty much in the middle. If you love Valentine’s Day and all the trappings, good for you! If you hate Valentine’s Day and all the trappings, I get that. If you used to love Valentine’s Day but have been jaded by years of high expectations and low follow-through, here’s the good news: It’s only 24 hours and you can sleep through most of it. In fact, this year, you can sleep through all of it. Winning!
Nonetheless, seeing how love is one-third of my “brand,” I should probably give it its time on the stage. Scoot over, peace and hyperbole. It’s the L word’s big day.
This morning the first two things I read gave me an idea.One was this groovy #ShareTheLove idea, and the other was this far out I Believe list (which, btdubs, put the line “I believe I can fly” in my head and it won’t go away, even though I can say in all sincerity that do not, in fact, believe I can fly). I’m not saying it’s a good idea, and as a matter of fact, since I’m the one who came up with it, chances are it’s not a good idea. But what the heck. It’s Valentine’s Day and this is probably only being read by a tree that fell in a forest somewhere and has nothing better to do until Arbor Day.
The idea: Share the love.
The plan: Do a focused free-write on “love” and then share it.
What will I need? Is this going to require a trip to the hipster market?: Nope, just some way to write things down and a way to time 10 minutes.
What next: Set your timer for 10 minutes. Then, ready-set-go, free-write a list of things you love. Try not to edit yourself.
And then?: Post it and share the link and the love. Share it (a link or your list) in the comments section below or on the Share the Love post. (Or nowhere. Don’t let me be the boss of you.)
A word about editing: I’d suggest not editing during the 10 minutes, which is always the thought behind free-writing. Let your mind go where it will. As to editing before posting, that’s up to you. Some things are better left a mystery.
Here’s my list, slightly edited to protect the innocent. What’s yours?
pictures of my children as babies♥pictures of my children♥my children♥Dunkin Donuts coffee ♥black turtlenecks♥elegant evening gowns♥wearing boots in winter and flip-flops in summer♥dangly earrings♥dogs (except that one that might have been trying to kill me)♥chocolate, of course, but since you’ve asked, I’m especially fond of dark, Belgian)♥french fries — and any variation of potato for that matter♥the smell of freshly baked bread (especially pumpernickel)♥avocados♥cozy fires in winter♥campfires in summer♥reading the Sunday paper♥music♥sunshine♥singing along with Sinatra in the car when spring has freshly sprung♥lemonade♥contagious giggles and belly laughs♥riding my bike♥impromptu road trips♥falling asleep reading a book♥staying up too late reading a book♥books♥being snowed in (sorry, New Englanders)♥crayons♥brand new notebooks♥colorful, smooth, round river rocks♥the ferry ride to that place or that other place♥sunsets♥sunrises♥full moons♥water♥sunsets, sunrises, and full moons over the water♥words♥kayaking♥intelligent, funny men♥intelligent, funny people♥holding hands♥hugs♥(Ok, it’s getting dangerous. . .changing topics . . .)♥fortune cookies♥expressions of kindness♥solitude♥spy thrillers♥romcoms♥happy endings♥the color orange♥walking♥quiet conversations♥inside jokes♥pop culture quotes♥listening♥libraries♥museums♥Degas’ dancers and Rothko’s colors♥learning new things♥daydreaming♥watching baseball. . .
So there you have it. My ten minutes of love. Please stop by on April 24 for the big reveal of my position on Arbor Day. (Spoiler alert: Probably crouched down planting flowers.)
For a little context, read the long version here. For some fun, add your own in the comments section.
“Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!”
“Where’s the beef?”
“I was for the war before I was against it.”
“Suppose you were a member of Congress and suppose you were an idiot. But I repeat myself.”
“I am not a crook.”
“Yes we can.”
“Don’t cry for me Argentina.”
“It depends on what your meaning of ‘is’ is.”
“Never go against a Sicilian when death is on the line!”
“The Eagle has landed.”
“Don’t make that face. It’ll freeze like that.”
“I believe you have my stapler. ”
“A penny saved is a penny . . . hey, that’s me!”
“You can’t start a fire without a spark.”
“Yo, Taylor, I’m really happy for you, I’ma let you finish, but Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time! One of the best videos of all time!”
*”That was Richard Fish on Ally McBeal. You’re going to need to know that if we’re going to be friends.” — Hippie Cahier.
Four score and a lot of years ago, give or take, the 16th President of the United States was born in Hodgenville, Kentucky. (To be historically accurate, he wasn’t president when he was born. That happened later.)
Here in the U.S., we’re about to kick off a three-day weekend honoring Abe and other notable presidents with hearts full of chocolates and red roses and mattress sales. I didn’t get around to baking him a cake or buying him a lousy card or writing something new. I had a fun idea, but I was at work, where they don’t pay me to have fun ideas. Something has to replace my downer from yesterday, so here is a re-run about a quote on happiness frequently misattributed to Lincoln.
(The quote is frequently misattributed to Lincoln. Happiness, not so much.)
Misattributed quotes on the Internet is one of my pet peeves, along with subject-verb ambiguity, so you might imagine how painful this sentence was for me to write. Anyway. I once saw some deep thought about airplanes attributed to Epictetus. Ridiculous.
But it’s not Epictetus’s birthday, despite what Mark Twain might have said that one time. It’s Lincoln’s birthday. To the Archives we go. . .
Several weeks ago I set out to write about my Saturday at the Department of Motor Vehicles (“DMV”). The theme was to be, “People are about as happy as they make up their minds to be,” a quote I’d heard attributed to Abraham Lincoln.
I wasn’t sure, though. It could have been Winston Churchill or Mark Twain or Maya Angelou. Maybe Confucius or Buddha or Gandhi or Dale Carnegie. All good sources of inspirational quotes. I couldn’t in good conscience cite Lincoln as the speaker, since I didn’t actually hear him myself, so I did what responsible bloggers do: I asked Google. I spent the rest of my Saturday sifting through link after link after link citing Lincoln as the speaker without finding one that I considered authoritative.
In fact, the more that I saw that Lincoln had said it, the less I believed that Lincoln had said it. I became obsessed with proving he didn’t.
I’ll take a break here and tell you a little about that Saturday. Anyone so inclined is welcome to wander out of the room to see if you can find the source of the quote. I’ll give you a hint: it was probably not the 16th President of the United States. When you’re ready, meet us back here on the other side of the italics where I’ll explain how I came to that conclusion.
Meantime, queue up the harp music and fade to italics while I reminisce about that fine day. . . . .
In this day and age, when one can do almost anything electronically, why would anyone need to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles, much less on a Saturday? I’ll confess right up front: it was my own fault.
It was time for my driver’s license renewal and they sent me a helpful mail-in form months ago. It seemed straightforward and convenient but I made the mistake of sticking it in my work bag and — you guessed it — I ended up carrying it around for a couple of months until just before my birthday, also expiration day, when I remembered that I needed to mail in the form. That’s when I noticed that there was a BACK of the form, requiring an eye doctor’s certification.
At this point I had a choice:
A. spending Saturday in line at the LensCrafters, hoping someone would fill out my form without charging me for another appointment or
B. taking a chance on the eye exam at the DMV.
I went with B and here’s why:
I knew that spending Saturday at the DMV would be about as much fun as, oh, spending Saturday at the DMV. I had no one to blame but myself, so I prepared for the experience. I’ve been wanting to block out some time for reading, so I packed a book.I knew there would be a line of fellow procrastinators, so I did my part to speed things along by filling out the form and having all my documentation ready.
Sure enough, there were about 50 people ahead of me in the triage line, where they ask what you’re in for and give you the appropriate alpha-numerical wait slip according to your vehicular and /or licensing needs. Then you go sit with the other hundred or more people in the next round. My only wish was not to get B-17. I worried that they might not call B-17, at Olivia Newton John’s request.
This is just about the only up side to living so much inside my own head: I can entertain myself in just about any situation, especially public places. People are fascinating and / or amusing.
So there I was, laughing (on the inside) at my own B-17 joke, running my own Muzak through my head (“Please Mister, please. . .”), when THEY arrived.
I didn’t see them coming, but I heard them once they arrived. Before they even came to a dead stop behind me, their fearless leader Andrew Dice Clay started the swear-fest, complaining about how effing long the effing line always is at the gosh-darned effing DMV and how effing incompetent the effing employees were and how much effing time this was going to take out of his effing day. The others joined in, wholeheartedly agreeing with ADC about what a ridiculous effing situation they were in. They’d been there all of thirty seconds.
Shocked and appalled, Olivia Newton John clammed up and ran for cover, clearing my mind to ponder the following question: Who comes to the DMV in a group?
I can understand that perhaps one of them was there for an effing driver’s test and s/he needed another em-effing licensed driver along, but this seemed to be a family outing. Why?
I didn’t have time to form a hypothesis because the triage line moved rather quickly. Before I knew it, the Head Triage Person pleasantly inquired as to my reason for being there. I copped to general incompetence further exacerbated by the onset of age-related feeble-mindedness. She kindly handed me my ticket ( F-43, whew!) and invited me to have a seat while I waited. Off I went in search of a quiet bench to get in a little recreational reading.
I was a page or two into my book when I realized that the man two rows behind me had not stopped talking. When I realize something like that, I find it extremely hard to unrealize.
On and on he went, the topic of choice of course being how horrible the DMV is. How every time he has to come here they mess something up. Story after story of the time when he came without this document or that document and they stubbornly refused to help him. How rude they were when he insisted they use their stupid common sense and give him a break. He reminisced about the time he saw them skip right over someone’s number and call the next one (That one I believe. I just knew B-17 was bad luck).
And then, then he said, I swear to you I am not making this up. It may be paraphrased, but it’s what he said. He said. . .
“It’s one of my favorite things to do. Just come sit here and watch how these idiots mess things up.”
And I believe him.
Thankfully, my reprieve from the Frequent Flyer’s tirade came when F-43 was called and off I went to visit with another pleasant woman who allowed me to take the vision test without my glasses (I passed, which should frighten us all) and allowed me to keep the weight I listed ten years ago, although we both clearly knew it was slightly inaccurate. She even took a halfway decent picture of me. No one takes a half-decent picture of me. I am completely unphotogenic.
I was at the DMV for about an hour and a half that day. Considering all the people they had to take care of, I left pretty darned impressed, with a driver’s license I’d feel comfortable presenting to any officer of the law. The only disappointment was that I didn’t have time to sink into my book.
On the way home, I reviewed the experience and decided that most people are indeed just about as happy as they make up their minds to be.
If you go to the DMV expecting it to be a miserable experience, you can make it one. . . for yourself and everyone around you. Or you can block out the profanity and whiners and get in a little reading.
Whatever makes you as happy as you make up your mind to be.
That’s where my story would have ended, except for the nagging feeling that I hadn’t confirmed that Lincoln is the one who offered that insight about happiness. Eventually, I started getting hungry and needed to move on with my life, so I decided to let someone else wrestle with this for a while.
I sent a question to the fine folks at the Internet Public Library .
Although I still haven’t learned where the quote originated, the diligent librarian checked with about as reliable a source as one could find (except for Abe, who was unavailable for comment). Here is the answer she received and passed along to me:
Thank you for writing to us; your query has reached my desk.This is one of the 5 or so Hallmark-style inventions, or perhaps it is from Jonathan Livingston Seagull or some other late 20th century advice book, that is regularly hung on Lincoln’s neck. There is no record that he said it, and certainly no chance that he wrote it.
In general, we recommend to people that they never believe the stuff they find on the Internet in the way of ‘famous quotations’ by anyone.
James M. Cornelius, Ph.D.
Curator, Lincoln Collection
Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library & Museum
Thank you, IPL.
Thank you, Dr. Cornelius.
Thank you, nice folks at the DMV.
And a very special thank you, Olivia Newton John.