Here’s a story that brought tears to my eyes (Washington Post’s “Students Build a Better Home for Wounded Solider Who Couldn’t Get Around His House.”)
Human beings have so much potential.
Happy “Feel Good” Friday!
Here’s a story that brought tears to my eyes (Washington Post’s “Students Build a Better Home for Wounded Solider Who Couldn’t Get Around His House.”)
Human beings have so much potential.
Happy “Feel Good” Friday!
That’s what I said when my daughter (age 10) came home from school last April and said “Mom, we learned Prezi today!” My struggle to stay up-to-date on technology rivals my flailing attempts to stay informed on pop music (I thought Robin Thicke was Alan Thicke making a late middle-age comeback… and yeah, I thought “t’werking” meant “using twitter like a jerk”).
Prezi is the new “Keynote” (which is the new “Powerpoint”) and it’s all the rage in tech-forward academic circles. Oh wait. You don’t know what Keynote is? It’s MAC Powerpoint. Powerpoint? It’s McKinsey crack. Still confused? Don’t worry. Two years ago, I didn’t know any of this. Welcome to the tech ride, Mama. It’s real. And it’s coming from the bottom-up.
So why the pressure?
After my daughter showed me the Prezi she’d made in school, I got to thinking. It was very modern. It was very cool. And it looked very user-friendly. I mean, if a 10 year old could figure it out!? Why not use it for Totefish? I decided to make an About Us video using Prezi. It would be more interesting than a long, promotional write-up on the website, right? Who reads those, anyway?
I spent 5 months working on it. Yeah. That’s right. I’d never used Powerpoint or Keynote (although my daughter has made at least 4 presentations of each) so my learning curve was steeper than most. But you know what drove me through it? Fear of disappointing my daughter.
Do as I say, not as I do
I am one of those women who believes men and women should have equal opportunity to do anything. Because of that, I filled our house with trucks, building blocks and rainbow-hued legos when my daughter was born. I ended every Disney story with the line, “And she lived happily ever after she got a great job, invested her money in a diversified portfolio and ended up buying her own castle on the beach.”
When my daughter turned 8, I sat her down and said “Things are going to change around here. I’m going to start a company so now, we’ll have a babysitter pick you up at the bus-stop.” Her response? ”You can’t start a company. That’s what Dad does.” FOR REAL.
Failure is not an option
In the last two years, my daughter has been privy to the stresses, struggles and realities of achieving my dream to launch Totefish. Although I always lace my talks of Totefish with warnings of ”the odds of it working are slim” and “the average entrepreneur fails 4 times before they succeed”, my daughter tells everyone that her Mom is a building a big company. She also tells them that I’m an expert on Prezi. Expert?!? Not even close! But I have spent the last 5 months showing her my baby-steps of improvement. It’s become our thing. We don’t talk fashion. We don’t talk Miley Cyrus. We talk Prezi.
I showed my daughter my finished Prezi this week. Her response?
“I love you, Mom.”
I can’t think of a better reason to Prezi than that.
Today, my neighbor died.
I was there in her living room with her daughter, who has become a friend over the years, listening as the paramedics worked to revive her unresponsive pulse. I heard the call out for the fourth defibrillation. The danger-averting shout of “CLEAR” each time. It was just like on tv. Only, much more sad.
The only deaths I’ve experienced first-hand were that of loved ones at the end of hard-fought battles with cancer. I remember my father’s last belabored breath in the hospital room and the disturbing, distinctive curdle of my grandmother’s “death rattle” days before she died in her own room. Nearly sixteen years later, I can easily recall both sounds, clear as day.
Today, death came quickly, without any prior notice, to an acquaintance who lives across the street. A heart attack in the middle of the day, in the middle of a kitchen. The lead medic’s words to his team:”Let’s call it. We’re done. You did a good job, men” will ring in my head for years to come.
Certainly, I am reminded of the fragility of life, the quickness of its passing and the commitment we all must have to live each day to the fullest. But I’m also humbled by death’s lack of poetry. It requires rubber gloves and clean-up rags. It involves a lot of names and phone numbers. And afterwards, the neighbors go home, kiss their children a few extra times and order pizza for dinner.
And yes. Death still waits in all of our bushes.
But when death comes a callin’ to my house, don’t anyone cry (too hard) for me. Sure, I stress about my start-up, I worry all the time about my kids, I stay up too late working at night, I drink too much coffee in the morning, and I never find time to go to that hot yoga class down the street.
But here’s the thing. As I sit here tonight, pondering the meaning of life, I really am doing everything I want to do.
Sure, I’m strange for not wanting to sit on a beach and stare out at the surf but I like the stress, the worry and the To Do lists (as well as the giggles, cartwheels and inappropriate jokes I regularly — and secretly — share with my family). Isn’t that the purpose of life? To live the life you want to live? Who really wants to spend an hour of their day sweating in a god-foresaken stinky room with their hands wrapped around their ankles mumbling “namaste” into their armpits??!
When death comes a knockin’, he’ll find me drinking that second of glass of wine.
Carol, your passing does not go unnoticed. Cheers to your full 74 years.
Rest In Peace. July 19, 2013
“Fire Ants Invade Lady’s Printer In Canyon: Hysterics Follow”
I’m ready to move to a high-rise building in the city.
“You’re not scared of a few ants?” you ask.
“Oh, you just wait until you hear this story,” I reply, flapping my arms as if to shake any invaders off. A shiver runs up my spine.
Yesterday, I decided I wanted to use the scanner feature on my All-In-One printer. I’ve had the printer for 18 months but was always intimidated by its scanning functionality. Who isn’t, right? But being that the world has gone digital (and that I want to stay relevant in this constantly-evolving state), I decided it was time to transform all my legal contracts into digital copies. Very tech-forward of me, no?
I opened the lid of the printer and what to my wondering eyes should appear? A colony of frickin’ fire ants (and their transparent rice-kernel eggs) living underneath the glass of my scanner. 50 of them. A Queen Ant. A bunch of busy work ants. Maggot-like eggs by the dozens.
That Canon Company, what will they think of next? All the while I’ve been printing out my daily To Do lists, a colony of biting ants has been thriving in the machine. That’s taking “multi-functioning” to a whole new level. Serious “Thinking-Outside-The-Box” going on at the company.
Fire Ants, in case you didn’t know, rarely make their home in modern pieces of technology. They usually prefer moist outdoor locations. But then again, nature and I don’t exactly have a typical relationship. Clearly, the universe is trying to send me a message. Humans must learn to cohabitate with nature. Humans must stop the destruction of animal habitats.
Well, universe. I have a message back.
Get the F*&#%$K out of my printer.
As a working mom, preparing & serving healthy meals for the family is the most challenging of tasks. Home-cooked dinners were the first casualty of my return to work. They show no sign of resuscitation.
Here’s the problem, though. Even my fat-pants are starting to feel tight. I think my diet of pasta, pizza and frozen chicken nuggets is to blame. Sure, they’re nitrate-free but really, I know it’s not healthy for me or the kids. But how to get those good, made-from-scratch, healthy meals back into our lives?!
Fear not. I have a plan.
Redundancy. On a 14-day schedule.
Welcome to the launch of my “Two Week Recipe Rotation Plan.” I’ve mapped out two work weeks’ worth of recipes (I’m no fool… we’re eating pizza and sushi on weekends). They are easily prepared in advance (which I’m going to do on Sunday nights) AND can be thrown together the day of in 20 minutes. I’ve got one shopping list per week (so I don’t have to think about what to buy as I walk the aisles & I’m eradicating the quick grocery run mid-week). The meals are varied enough to keep everyone’s attention, they’re pre-vetted for healthiness, they’re kid-friendly & adult-worthy, and did I mention they are easy? I’m going to make the same rotation every two weeks until it drives my family mad. Then, I’ll find a new set of recipes.
I’m listing them, if you are interested, in the RESOURCES: Parenting section (see the top menu).
Imagine. No More:
1.) ”Oh, it’s Sunday night and here I am in the grocery store and I don’t know, what should I buy? Another bag of tortillas and shredded cheese? We can have quesadillas one night. Oh wait. We had that last night. How about hotdogs? Hotdogs are American, right?”
2.) ”But I thought you liked my chicken stir-fry? If I served ice cream for dinner twice a week, you’d still love ice cream, no?”
3.) ”Oh shit. I thought I had a can of black beans in here. I always have beans in the pantry. Sorry kids — We’ll do burrito night tomorrow. Tonight, how about a stir fry?”
4.) ”What?! It’s already 6 pm? Not again. Let me look in the freezer.”
5.) “I’m sure there’s something I can make with frozen bagels, a bag of peas, a half-bag of tater tots and some chicken breasts dating back to December, right? They do this kind of thing on tv all the time.
6.) ”Let’s just order in some pizzas tonight. Tomato sauce has tomatoes in it. Tomatoes are vegetables. Or are they a fruit?!”
7.) ”I went to the Farmer’s Market’s on Sunday. Bu why is the lettuce slimey? And the zucchini shriveled ? Is celery supposed to bend like this? Let’s put the carrots in a bowl of ice water. You’ll see. In 2 hours, they’ll be totally firm again.”
8.) ”YAY, kids. It’s ‘Bizarro Night’ again. What’ll it be, kids — Cheerios or Rice Krispies? Who doesn’t love breakfast for dinner?”
Hear me now, believe me later. This is revolutionary. This is me, being more organized than I knew was possible. That’s enough to make a girl go giddy.
While surfing the web & eating a bowl of leftover mashed potatoes at my lunch-break today, I came across this story. Tears welled up in my eyes (and mashed potatoes in my throat).
The world is a good place.
Check out the story for yourself: “Tennessee Homecoming King Nominees Give Crown to Another Teen.”
May it overwhelm you, too, with faith in humanity. We have such potential.
Happy “Feel-good” Friday.
Hiking 3 1/2 hours up a steep mountain? Lovely.
Riding 7 minutes down on the gondola? Spear your hiking pole thru my heart and call it a mercy killing.
I’ve turned into a 40-year old acrophobe. And I blame it on my start-up.
Here’s the back-story:
This past summer, my husband and I went day-hiking up Bald Mountain in Idaho. Perfect excuse for exercise, communing with nature and accomplishing a goal. Who wouldn’t feel good after that?
We made our way up the mountain in the shade of the gondola. The free ride down was to be our reward. Three hours later, I bounded, thrilled to be sitting down on the cushioned seat, happy for the beautiful scenery in front of us.
That was until we began the descent. My stomach immediately lurched and my only vision was of the gondola slipping off its rail and careening into the rocks below.
I was afraid of heights? What the hell!?!
As a teenager, I loved rollercoasters, cliff walks and skyscraper viewing decks. I savored the take-offs of airline flights, I jumped from the high-dive platform without hesitation and I never lowered the security bar on ski lifts. But now, in the safety of Swiss-manufactured steel cage, I got light-headed, starting negotiating with God and ended up with my eyes closed, humming “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens” until we reached the ground. I figured it was a gondola thing. No more Swiss transportation for me.
But last week, it happened again on the plane ride home our Christmas vacation. The flying scared the shit out of me! Consistent turbulence and the sight of snow-capped mountains just below the wing tip sent me into a panic attack — sweaty armpits, shallow breathing and shaking arms included. We were all going to die! I shouted to my earphoned kids “I LOVE you!” They nodded and kept watching their movie.
A few days later, while skiing, I found myself holding tightly to the chairlift bar, wondering if a gust of wind could send our chair tumbling down a ravine.
What on earth was happening to me?! I was unraveling at the seams.
I know the phobia of heights has plagued thousands, but for me, it was new. A NY Times article (“Can A Playground Be Too Safe?”) discussed growing trends of acrophobic children due to the lack of high climbing equipment at parks and gyms. Maybe I just needed practice bungee jumping and climbing ladders? My husband suggested that I just needed rest. But I blamed it on the start-up. The stress and pressure of building a company, raising two children and not letting my muffin-top of fat overcome ALL of my jeans had made me afraid to leave sea-level. Maybe I couldn’t handle it all?
No way! I thrive on multi-tasking.
So I started researching late-in-life phobias and strategies on how to overcome them (without a cockatil of heavy medication and vodka). Turns out, the fear of heights is often most caused by a simple fear of dying; a greater realization of one’s mortality. For some reason, I’m more afraid now of dying than ever before. Hmmm.
Could it be that now, with a loving family and a start-up launching in April, that I am more in-love with life than ever before? Could it be that the “pressure” to juggle my family and ambition is, in fact, engaging me more in life? That I want to live more than ever?
Well, well, well.
That’s a spin on stress and aging, isn’t it? Life is simply getting more interesting and I, more anxious to live it.
I’ll take it. Here’s to a promising 2013… and lots of fear of dying.
I have a confession to make. I’m an epic-romance junkie.
Sure, I’m a happily-married, mother of two, ambitious feminist… but I’m a hopeless, over-the-top devotee of sweeping, all-consuming love stories. The bigger the drama, the happier I am. Movies about star-crossed lovers and their tearful embraces make me want to dance. Complicated stares? I practice them in the mirror. Kisses that leave your lungs aching and your throat dry? I watch the scene seven times without blinking. A soaring musical score? Caresses that reach below the skin? Silences filled with weighted pauses? I can’t get enough!
Yes. It’s past midnight again and I’m awake. The house is asleep and the decaf coffee I ordered at dinner clearly wasn’t decaf. I’m too tired to map out yet another User Experience flowchart so that means there’s only one thing left to do: it’s movie trailer watching time. And damn it if there’s not ONE epic love story in the mix.
Remember all those great sweeping love stories Hollywood used to make? The English Patient. Moulin Rouge. Out of Africa. I miss them. I want them. But I can’t find them anywhere. Where has the big love story gone?? Enough with all these small independent character flicks about broken marriages or friendships between strangers. I want passion, damn it! I want kisses and embraces and longing and suffering and all those great things that keep me glued to my chair, wishing for the movie to never end.
There’s not even a Twilight movie trailer (and there’s always a Twilight movie trailer!) It’s gonna be a tough night for a junkie without her juice.
So, just in case there are a few addicts out there who need to feel some passionate caresses and witness some love that overcomes a whole bunch of crazy obstacles between two ridiculously gorgeous people … here’s a tiny fix from a greener time not so long ago:
Even Casino Royale had it…
Oh, it’s enough to drive a woman to download Pretty Woman to her iTunes account…
I’ve seen my future. I’m a senile old woman who gets kicked out of the nursing home because I keep scaring the other elderly guests with my shouts of imagined wildlife creeping across my bed.
Let me get you up to speed. Last year, after a long 24-hour standoff with a 7-inch rodent in my bedroom, I (successfully) worked my way through some serious post-traumatic stress episodes:
”Jim, did you hear that scratching noise?! No, wait, there it is again! Wait, what?! Well, stop scratching your leg that loudly. Who does that?!”
(See “Rat In My Bedroom: A True Story in Three Acts” for a dramatic re-enactment & medical justification for bitchy wife comments; option rights still available).
A few months after that, I found a rattlesnake curled up nice-and-sweet in a small bush 10 feet from our back door. Luckily, our neighbor’s gardener was quick to respond to my shouts. He “tamed it into a box” (and when I say tame, I mean “used blunt force with a shovel”). Ah, canyon life.
Last week, as my meeting with my CTO ended, my daughter ran screaming into the house. ”I tried to pick a snake’s tail. I thought it was a cherry tomato!”
Saying nothing of the tomato/invertebrate confusion, I remembered my husband’s pleas that I not pass down my hysteria for wildlife to our children. As calmly as I could, I asked, “Was it making a noise as you grabbed it?” She shook her head. ”It’s black with green stripes. Eewww, I can’t believe I touched a snake!” she replied. I forced my voice to sound airy, as if I was discussing my plans to invade Canada, Sarah Palin-style. ”Okie dokie, then, let’s go get this snake out of our garden so we can pick our tomatoes.” I was sweating as I reached for the broom out of the closet, smiling big and weird, like a freaky clown that shows up uninvited to your birthday party.
Well, long story short. It turned out to be a very scared garter snake that, with some vigorous broom-shaking, fell from the tomato plant and slithered off to the neighbor’s yard (sorry Patti…) My daughter went back to picking vegetables while I read interesting snake facts aloud from my laptop. I told my kids to call me Indiana Momma. I’d licked my fears about nature.
Until that night.
My husband was away on a business trip. Around 2 am, I woke up out of a deep sleep. Why was I up? I looked around the room and saw the back patio lights on. The lights. I’d forgotten to turn them off. I walked through the dark house, towards the bank of light switches. Then, I saw it. The back door was not closed. All night long, the door from the patio to the house… the only barrier between me and wild… was wide open and inviting.
I nearly peed my pants.
No, I wasn’t afraid of burglars. I was afraid of snakes. They were noctural, for god’s sake. They do their traveling while humans sleep. Yes, I immediately jumped on the coffee table and surveyed the room. I went through my snake facts:
So I started stomping. I jumped off the table and stomped around the room, pausing briefly to listen for the sound of a rattle. Living Room? All clear. Den? All clear. Kitchen? All clear. Kids Playroom? Well… this is where I lost my mind.
My kids own two toys:
Taken alone, these are innocuous toys. Together, they are the devil’s creation put on earth to string out high-strung mothers at 3 am.
As I stomped in the playroom, I knocked into the loft (which holds all the kids stuffed animals) and damn it if that python snake didn’t drop down the pile AT THE EXACT TIME the beads in the rattle spilled down to another level. Couldn’t make it up, even if I wanted to. Why my kids had their baby rattle toy out-and-about, I’ll never know. But leave it at this.
At this point, I did pee my pants. For real.
Eventually, I calmed down and went to back to bed.
I didn’t have a snake in my house… Just a few bats in my belfry.
For the month of July, I hired a “wife.” And I love her.
No, not in that way.
For an hourly rate, “my wife” deals with the termite-invested sideboard, negotiates with the internet-provider company for a new router, picks up the prescriptions at the drugstore, swings by Whole Foods for the 1% milk, verifies the warranty (and arranges the return) on a busted Bose speaker, shops for a beautifully-themed birthday gift for my niece, measures (and compares prices) for new patio furniture covers and picks up the kids from camp. And that was just yesterday.
I love my wife like my husband loved me when I wasn’t working on my start-up company:
She frees up my time so I can focus on my work.
She empties my personal inbox & deals with all those post-it notes on the refrigerator.
She keeps the house running in tip-top shape.
She reminds me to take the kids to their dental check-up at 4 pm.
She brings me a cafe latte in the afternoon because she “knows how much I need it.”
But my husband tells me I have to stop calling her “my wife.” He says it’s derogatory to women.
I was raised by a 1950s-fashioned mother but I quickly picked the other side in the feminist revolution. I wanted to make my own money. I wanted my own apartment. I wanted to wear men’s jeans. I got married and left my career when we started a family but not because it was what my mother did. I became a stay-at-home mother because child development experts told me, in their books, that it was the best way to kick-start a child’s life. For eight years, I did the 1950s thing — total division of labor between home and office. My husband went to the office and I stayed at the home. I did all those “wifey” things because that was how we kept the whole thing afloat. Shit had to get done and someone had to do it. My husband ran his company – and I ran the house.
But I’m now trying to run my own company. So who’s running the house?
My “wife” is! And I don’t mean ANY disrespect by the term. Or do I? I am so confused. What do I call her?!
I guess I could use the term “Assistant” but in my experience, an Assistant works out of an office and is “in training” for a bigger job. And while a “Personal Assistant” does work out of someone’s personal home (or at least, their shiny SUV), I imagine their tasks are more “personalized” (“make my appointment with Fabio at 10!”) and their task-masters usually have some dramatic flare (tiaras and yachts do come to mind).
I could call “my wife” a “Secretary” but yes, much like the maligned “Stewardess”, that word is laden with cultural references that include knee-length skirts, Girl Fridays, and martinis at lunch.
So how about “Home Manager”? When I mentioned to a close girlfriend that I was thinking about hiring a “manager to run the house,” she quickly replied, “Oh, you need a wife.”
Life Details Administrator?
I’m paying a generous hourly rate and I am in constant appreciation (and awe) that these tasks (which for the last four months have been neglected and/or forgotten) are now completed on-time, with efficiency and grace. As a woman, I don’t find it embarrassing that a “wife” has traditionally done these tasks. I did them myself. And I used to do them well.
Until I can come up with another term, I’ll have to refer to my new woman as the “Industrious, Smart, Professional Woman Dealing With All the Loose-Ends of our Family Household” although you and I both know… it’s no different than calling her my wife.
Just because some of you were late to the modern tech social media thingie, doesn’t mean you can’t go pro. Here are the basic rules to follow as you head open-armed into the social network of the world:
1.) DO ASSUME YOUR MOM IS READING IT
Yes, I know your mom is 72 years old but imagine if she knew where the power button was on your hand-me-down laptop and read that you had a graduate degree from an Ivy League school when, in fact, you barely finished college in a drunk stupor? Don’t lie about your credentials. Not only will your Mom be disappointed but it’s the internet, people — it’s crazy easy to cross-reference data. Don’t swear (unnecessarily). Don’t post anything naked about anyone (including yourself, your husband, your cute babies in the bathtub, your highschool ex-boyfriend who you’re still bitter over, your neighbor, your favorite celebrity or your pet). Don’t gossip (excessively). Do use proper punctuation and upper-case letters to start sentences. Don’t make fun of your Mom or else she won’t come out to babysit the kids the next time you and your husband want to go to Palm Springs for the weekend.
2.) DON’T POST PHOTOS FROM MOMS’ WEEKEND IN VEGAS
I know, occasionally we all have a photo where we think, “Oh my god, I look so amazing. Hot and sexy and tan and thin and my hair, wow, I ‘m hotter now than I was at 19. Eat your heart out, Bobby Lipkinsky, I still got it.” But you can’t post it because either a.) you don’t look sexy as much as “slutty” and no one wants to see you looking like that, especially not your Mom or your kids or b.) you do look that hot and sexy and thin and no one, not even your best friend, will think kind thoughts about it. Instead, they’ll think “wow, it’s so obvious you posted that photo ’cause you look so great and it’s not what you look like most days so why even post it other than to rub my nose in how great your hair looks and that’s so not nice… blah, blah, blah”
3.) DO ASSUME YOUR KIDS WILL READ EVERYTHING YOU POST
Even if they can’t read right now, whatever you say on the ‘net, stays on the ‘net. It’s like Vegas with video-cameras. That means, it’ll be there forever. So, when they turn 16 and figure out how to disable the nanny filter function on Google, they’re going to type in your name (right after they type in “boobs” & “penis”). So, if you thought your credibility was compromised the day they said, “But Mom, that’s not what you said about Dad on the phone to Grandma” or “But Mom, that’s not the way the teacher told us to add mixed fractions” just wait until they read one of your typo-riddled rants about some gossipy thing you had no good reason on which to be commenting, especially if it involves a celebrity or your neighbor or the new hot Science teacher at your kids’ school. Which brings me to number 4…
4.) DON’T DRINK AND TYPE
You’re thinking, “Duh, Deb, I’d never do that” but trust me, you’ll do it once ’cause you think you can handle your liquor better than most and then, about twenty minutes later, you’ll wish you hadn’t but it’ll be too late to unsend and then, you’ll come to me crying, “You were right” and I’ll find no pleasure in your pain but I will nod knowingly. When you drink, your mind turns into your own personal frenemy (who likes you but likes to see you fail even more). When you drink, you think that pun makes sense, you think your “I’m-just-writing-because-I-like-electrons-as-much-as-my-son” email to the new hot Science teacher is subtly sexy rather than creepy and desperate, and your short angry email response about volunteering to work at this year’s Cupcake Fundraiser does not belie your secret jealousy towards that Mom who not only owns a cookie-company that was just profiled on Oprah.com but has perfectly coiffed hair, two high-performing well-behaved teenagers and genuinely is liked more by the Administration than you. If you’ve had more than one drink and you find yourself saying, “Oh, I’m just checking my email..,” arrest yourself. Trust me, you’ll be glad you did in the morning.
5.) DO THINK LIKE A VIRAL SHERLOCK-HOLMES
Okay, that heading doesn’t make sense but here’s the story behind it. There’s this mom who posted an article in her major New York-based newspaper blog about her son’s friends who smoked way too much pot but mind you, she didn’t post their names ’cause she didn’t want to rat them out to their parents even though her blog byline has her whole name in it and she mentions her son by name. Hmmm. Shocker, the website “Gawker” picks up the story and outs everyone. When you write something secret, please know that it isn’t secret. I mean, seriously. Secret means keep your mouth shut. Secret is gossiping in person so you can later deny that you said anything about anything to anyone. If you want to share a secret online about your neighbor (or your husband or your kids or your favorite celebrity or your beloved Mom), be prepared for that cold-shoulder in the carpool lane when your secret to goes viral.
6.) DON’T POST ABOUT YOUR CUTICLES
That’s code for no one cares about the mundane habits about your human life. I get it. We all love our kids, we all wish we could sleep in longer in the morning, we all have smelly feet at the end of the day. I don’t need to read another post about it. Seriously, the internet is about ‘upping your game. It’s your chance to show the world what you could really be if you weren’t constrained by your geography, age, gender or resume. Cream rises to the top, baby. Consider what you post before you post it. If your mother is going to be bored by it, don’t write it. You can try to be amusing (which is my schtick) or smart (which is a good thing if you have a PhD) or inspirational (ah, Oprah) — whatever you choose to do, whatever you like to do… do it with gumption and originality and passion. And use spell-check.
7.) DO TAKE YOUR OWN PHOTOS INSTEAD OF COPYING-&-PASTING PROFESSIONAL ONES
Even if the photo of your own “wagging finger” doesn’t make sense at first (or ever…) and sure, it’s not nearly as good as the one you found on Google Images ’cause your pointer finger is weirdly long, but that’s the one you should use. Otherwise, it’s stealing. Copyright rules are real (and photographers have feelings which do get hurt and then, they hire lawyers) so even though you didn’t bother reading any of the legal mumble-jumble on the new Google privacy rules, you should at least know not to steal someone else’s photos. Remember what happened to those kids who got fined because they used Napster when it first came out? The courts threw out their “I didn’t know and everyone else was doing it” defense. I’m just saying, you don’t want to be the one “they made an example of.” Oh wait. That means I should pull down that photo of Madonna and the rat. Hmmm. Those are going to be trickier than the finger to do with my iphone.