Facebook Annoys Me

Actually, the site doesn’t bother me, but a good number of it’s users do. And for specific reasons….in no particular order these are:

1. Couples who have the same facebook account. I see this a lot. None of my friends have this, thank God. I would give them a stern talking to. I can almost understand it with old couples…but just today one of my suggested friends was “ChuckandMelanie Jones” (does Facebook require their first names to be runtogether in that fashion?) who couldn’t have been more than 25. Get your own damn facebook account. Just because you are joined as one in marriage does not mean you are joined as one on the interwebs, ok?

2. People who use their child’s picture as their facebook profile shot. I’m not against seeing pics of people’s kids. I actually like that people share all sorts of family shenanigans on facebook. But if someone from your past does a search for you, how are they going to know if you’re the Tammy Johnson they seek when all that stares back at them is a drooling infant? When your kids turn 13, they can get their own account. Until then, they should  not be featured ALONE in a profile picture. I’m totally fine with pics of people holding their children, and if you added a new bumpkin THIS WEEK, it’s acceptable to have them as your profile, otherwise, that little bundle of joy standing in as you says to me that being a parent has sucked any sense of self you had right out of you.

3. Nonsense middle names. This seems to be popular among young wanna-be urban types. “Sarah DisBadBitch Williams”. Unless it appears on your birth certificate, nonsense middle names are just that–nonsense. A friend recently observed that most of these kid’s faux-middle names sound like the title of a bad eighties sitcom. “Jerome WhosTheBoss Franklin” is no doubt already on Facebook.

4. Duck-face self portraits. Another popular one among teen girls. Nothing screams low self esteem to me louder than some poor wench who has no doubt worn down the battery on her prepaid cell phone taking duck faced self portraits. Big lips look good on Angelia Jolie, girls. When you stick yours out you’re just advertising to the world that you are low class and on the fast track to loserdom.

5. Hand symbols. Another one that is the province of young people, though I’ve seen my share of douche bags of all ages doing it. If someone says cheese, what is it in these people that takes that as a sign to flash a peace sign, some butchered gang symbol, or any other sort of hand origami? The hand symbol boys ought to find themselves a little duck faced girl and start planning  their minimum-wage lives together, because I have a feeling that is exactly what they are headed for. Future litigants on Judge Judy, you can mark my words.

Meet Mama…

If you’ve read my mama stories and tried to “hear” what she sounded like, or piece together how her train of thought goes, watch the video above. (Or go to You Tube and search for anything “Betty Butterfield”) Although mama is 100 lbs lighter than Betty, the similarities are startling.

I was up in WV for work last weekend. I had a very full schedule of client meetings and site visits. Mama had decided she was ready to leave Kenny’s home in the trailer park and return to her own house. And, because she’d had a cyst on her wrist drained (with a needle, no incision, no stitches mind you) she was unable to lift so much as her cosmetics bag and she would, naturally, need my assistance. This same needle kept her from driving. Kept her from sleeping well, and kept her from being able to vacuum.

So, in a series of phone calls, in hushed tones, mom whispered her plans for going home, as if she were Harriet Tubman planning an escape on the Underground Railroad. Truth is, Kenny is a nice enough guy, and he would probably welcome a few days peace if she felt the need to go spend some time at her own house. That she had to make it a covert operation is testament to the fact that she is the world’s biggest drama queen.

When I finally got to visit mama, she had been unable to pack, and so would NOT be going home afterall. (This was after she’d spent two days telling me how she was packing up her stuff). Now, you have to realize that Mama has no more stuff at Kennys than any reasonable person might take on a weeks vacation. But it simply isnt in her nature to do things the easy way. Packing this amount of stuff will 1. take at least a week, 2. result in several days of exhaustion, and 3. at least one demonstrable injury–be it a thrown back, a stubbed toe, or a broken finger.

I saw Mama on Saturday. She and I went out to her house, where she got some boxes to “pack up her breakables” at Kenny’s. (When pressed, her breakables include a picture frame and a bottle of perfume. The need for boxes is for dramatic effect.) It is now Thursday and Mama is still at Kennys. She had an appointment with the gynecologist earlier in the week. That appointment kept her from packing and going home that day, and the next day she was so exhausted from her doctors appointment that she was once again unable to drive herself home. Let’s hope, for Kenny’s sake, she recovers soon.

Beginning of the Week Brain Sprinkles

1. I love those Charmin commercials with the little mama bear. They so delicately address the very serious topic of dingleberries.

So the next time someone answers your obvious question with “Does a bear shit in the woods?” You tell them, “Yes, but they use a quality toilet tissue.”

2. So we’ve had Donald Trump and Sarah Palin, reality stars and fame whores, flirting with presidential runs. I think we should take it a step further…maybe a new show called “American President”..we could get Snooki, a few of the real housewives (I’d vote for Lisa Vanderpump but there’s that pesky “not born here” thing), maybe even go old school and get Tek from “The Real World” it would make for great television, and it could hardly do more to make American Politics a joke than what the past few years have already done.

3. Gas prices, along with sluggish car leases in 2008 have apparently created a shortage of quality fuel efficient used cars. Several models are actually worth more now than they were new a year ago. (has that EVER happened?) The article I was reading on this phenomenon showed that my brother’s Honda Fit is now worth $1,000 more than it retailed for last year. (Which actually means it’s worth about $2,000 more than we paid for it, because I finagled a bargain when we got it). For shits and giggles, I also looked at what my car is worth now. It’s one of the more fuel efficient SUVs out there, but still, it was a surprise that it’s retail value is now $3,000 more than I paid for it! (Again, I paid less than retail, but still.) I told Darling this meant it was a perfect time for me to make my near-annual trade in. I got the stink eye. I don’t think it will happen.

Her Hand’s Itching!

Mama finally got her check last week. The full limits of the policy on her hoarding hovel. I’ve tried to counsel her on what should be done with this windfall. See, Mama has her mobile mansion on eight acres of land that she has lived on for 30 years. She technically doesn’t own this land, it’s part of what used to be considered a life lease. My great grandparents lived on this land, when I was a kid, two of my favorite cousins lived just down the street, and when we first called it home 30 years ago, it was a cute little community of good people who took pride in their mini-farms. Times have changed. The older neighbors are all dead, replaced through the years by a variety of people who “dont work cuz of disability”. Jerry Springer could have kept his show booked for a year trolling through the neighborhood ten years ago. But, times have once again shifted. The land of my old neighborhood is valuable–hundreds of acres right in town, undeveloped. Over the past decade, what were once cow pastures are now business parks. What was once an old coal mine slate dump is now a driving range. What was once the field where my neighbor’s horses roamed is now an elementary and middle school campus. And where my great grandmother used to tend her prized roses is now a major highway. And plop in the middle of all this development is Mama. Her eight acres more often than not overgrown and untended. The only neighbors in the old ‘hood are cut off from her by the new freeway. It’s no longer a place for people to live, and it’s too much property for mom to care for.

The time is coming when Mama will get a call from the true owners of the property telling her that she has 30 days to vacate because they’re developing the property into an apartment, or a gas station, or a methadone clinic. And even though she owns her doublewide free and clear, the expenses involved in moving it elsewhere are quite out of mama’s budget.

So, my top suggestion for Mama has been to use whatever portion of her windfall to move. “I cain’t find nobody that moves trailers.” has been her mantra for weeks now. My answer has always been the same: “If you call ANYONE who sells mobile homes, they can tell you who to call.” Apparently, this is outside her skill set. So, naturally, I got online and sent her the names of three mobile home movers in the area. She’s looked at a few mobile home parks.

 ”They want $150 a month!” She has learned. After pressing her, this pittance includes residents water and trash pick up, so by my math, her monthly expenses would only rise about 20 dollars all told.

Mama has remained under some delusion that this money must be in someone else’s account. I want no part of this, so when I got a call from the bank she chose last week, my skin about came loose. Turns out the bank representative had informed her that she couldn’t make me co-owner on her account if I weren’t there, so he just wanted my address so that I could be her beneficiary. Fine.

My advice to mom has been to use the money first and foremost to move her home. She owns it, in reality its more space than she should need, and if she got her hoarding under control, its actually a very nice little place. It would just be the sensible thing to do. Which is why it probably won’t happen.

“I went and looked at some new trailers just to see what my options were. I need one thats got some closet space”

“Well mother, I think you could turn one of your smaller bedrooms into a proper closet with built in shelves and what not for a few hundred dollars.”

“I could do that.” I’m guessing she won’t though.

When she voiced displeasure at living in a trailer park, I told her to look for a small lot she could purchase. There are bargains to be had in this market, after all, and while I think her needs are better met by a managed park, far be it from me to begrudge her owning her own parcel.

So she picked up a Trading Times, the local classified paper. What a mistake. She called over the weekend, terribly excited. Now, I don’t mean to make fun here, it was an awfully sweet gesture, but she really needs to make some smart decisions with this money, and she just isn’t.

“I found a timeshare in the Trading Times! I was gonna get it for you all. It’s only $1000 for a week in a 5-star complex at the beach. And it’s for the week of your birthday!” I’m fairly certain, at that price, its someone just selling the use of their share for this year. “I talked to the lady already! You could take that week off couldn’t you?”

Luckily, by the time I returned the call, she had forgotten all about the timeshare. “I cain’t replace ever-thing they took.” She complained.“But I gotta get some jewelry. It’s a shame not having at least a ring I can wear. And they’s some good ones in the Trading Times that people are just desperate to sell!”

Ugh! So aggravating! I can’t get through to her that she needs to make moving a priority now, while she has the luxury of time and money to do so. I shudder to think that she will fritter away this money on timeshares and emeralds, and then she will get the call that she HAS to move, and will have no way at all to. (Though, knowing her, she will find some program that will foot the bill.)

Great Aunt Merle–The Original Person of WalMart

Picture it, small town West Virginia, 1995. A group of friends too young to drink, too poor to do much of anything, and too stupid to care what anyone thought, are looking for ways to entertain themselves on a quiet weekend night.

Someone gets the bright idea that someone, no names please, ought to dress up as an old woman. And so that young man got decked out in a fabulous purple hat, a pair of vintage Sally Jesse Raphael glasses, and, complete with a walker and one of those masks everyone wore when SAARS broke out, the group headed to Wal Mart where they ran into one of their mothers and her long time friend and neighbor. The mother, without missing a beat, said, “Jane, I’m sure you remember Daddy’s sister Merle?” Poor Jane didn’t know whether to laugh, but uncomfortably said her hellos. And now, folks, thanks to the wonders of color scanners, I’d like to introduce you to Great Aunt Merle: