My Facebook feed combusted yesterday, a feeding frenzy of cat-calls and judgment.
Over a photo. At a Hollywood event.
It's no secret that I deplore Facebook. I use it because I must. Therefore, I am diligent in trying to understand how Facebook works. As a result, I deleted the Facebook mobile app from my iPhone more than a year ago.
If you are still using the Facebook mobile app on your smartphone or other mobile device, you really, REALLY need to read this article by Nick Russo. Drop EVERYTHING you're doing and READ IT.
Do you like to get the old fashioned, luddite version of mail?
Fossil-fuel burning. Ink and paper. Lick and stick.
I confess to ardent worship of the antiquated practice of letter writing. It's one reason I send handwritten postcards to numerous children on every trip. Why I mailed over 100 letters in advance of the release of my novel. Why the proprietress of the local stationery shop turns cartwheels every time I darken the door.
Lately, though, I've been thinking about letter writing for another reason.
I'm sick of being online.
Surely you recall that dreadful dance, Dear Reader? The funky chicken dance had to be devised by someone who was blotto, flapping arms and waddling legs an evidence of too much Everclear. Or Jack Daniels. All I’m saying is that grain alcohol had to be involved.
It is a dance that is beneath me. I have always been too hoity-toity to do it.
Until yesterday. I was slaving away at my desk and happened to look out my window. Behold! My urban back yard contained……live poultry. Squawking poulet. A FREAKING CHICKEN.
I’ve already squealed on my neighbors to all of cyberspace about their possibly illegal city-slicker hens. As long as they give me fresh eggs to keep me quiet, I don’t care WHAT they’re doing in their back yard.
But, that was before I discovered that chicken can fly. Or, they like to climb things, like my fence. I didn’t realize they became curious about their surrounding area and would decide to go exploring.
Once I saw the stupid bird, I couldn’t forget it. I tried to shoo it back to its own domain, flapping my arms and waddling my legs in tune with its ever-thrusting head. It looked at me like I had lost my marbles and tried to peck my foot, sending me screaming around the yard in a high lather of panic. “Who’s the chicken now?” it seemed to taunt me when I ran into the house and slammed and locked the door.
It was still OUT THERE, though, in the yard. Milling around and pecking things and generally harassing me. I had to GET RID OF IT. So, I did the only thing I could think of: I asked my friends on Facebook and Twitter how to catch a chicken. It was less mortifying than calling 911. Scads of ‘helpful’ commentary poured forth from my friends.
Bethany Vozel: Link sneaks up behind them and picks them up and throws them. (Great. Link wasn’t here.)
Brian PJ Cronin: Throw a towel over them. It confuses them for long enough that you can scoop them up. (But, what if it poops on the towel? Or on ME?)
Brett Myers: lol….. (Well, I’m glad SOMEBODY was laughing at my predicament.)
Karen Snyder: Ya’ gotta be quick. (I cannot be quick in a pink silk frock. Ain’t happening.)
Lou Mello: First, you have to cross the road. (Ah, Lou. You know me so well. You knew the only thing I would be capable of was RUNNING AWAY.)
Ginger Crawford Phillips: Where is that, in your backyard? Put out some scratch, or old veggies, oatmeal, something. Drop it out about 10 feet from you, then, a few feet closer to you, until it is right under your feet, then slowly pick her up. (The chicken already tried to EAT MY FOOT. I am not putting food next to any part of myself, thank you very much.)
Jackie Ng: Cuddle it. (Ew. EW. EWWWWWWWWWWW.)
Pretty much all of these comments have a common theme: the assumption that I will touch an actual live chicken. The very thought of having to touch the mangy thing caused me to have nightmares. I was fully awake, so I guess that means I hallucinated the Behemoth Bird Being. My ridiculous phobias left me with no choice. I had to call out the big guns.
Thank God, I slathered paint on my face yesterday.
I went outside and did my best impression of Southern Damsel in Heaps of Distress. My production caught the attention of one of the workers next door. He dropped everything he was doing and rushed over to rescue me from the Hideous Chicken Monster.
I don’t care that he called me a chicken over his shoulder as he walked away.
It is a fundamental fact of any architect, one that anyone who lives with him or her has to just accept – architects love their pens. There can never be enough pens. And, they usually must be a specific type of pen. Any old pen will not do.
We are now in the mountains. One of the purposes of our trip is to try to finish digging our hole, and MTM is all atwitter, trying to finish the design for our 12 x 12 storage building on our property.
So, MTM brings all of his architectural accoutrements, and they pretty much fill a whole section of one suitcase. When I unpacked, I was astounded to pull out at least dozen Uni-ball Extra Fine pens. (As an aside, when I just asked him for the exact name of the pen he prefers, he whipped one right out of his pocket here at Conrad’s Coffee Shop and looked to make sure it was the Uni-ball. He ALWAYS has at least two pens in each pocket.)
Here are just a few of the odd places I’ve found MTM’s pens: next to the toilet; underneath every car seat; in the clothes hamper I take to the dry cleaner; between the sofa cushions; in the refrigerator; in the washer; and in our bed. Yes, I once rolled over on a pen in the middle of the night and was stabbed by it.
Once I rounded up the gaggle of pens and put them out of the way, unloading the rest felt like I was revisiting geometry class. I try not to look at MTM’s drafting desk or even enter the room where it is. That’s his room, and he can do whatever he likes in there. I don’t want to know about it, but I especially don’t want to SEE it.
I can’t believe architects need all this stuff. For such minimalist people, the sheer volume of straight edges, triangles, pencil sharpeners (why, when you only use pens???), compasses, sticky things, some razor cutter contraption, tracing paper, more rulers and funky shaped objects astounded me. Won’t just one straight edge do? Why are fifteen required?
I mean, I can’t have ONE extraneous photograph or knick-knack perched anywhere in our house, but this stuff is now covering the entire length of the dining table in our cabin. I just hope I don’t get stabbed by a pen in my sleep. Yes, MTM even sleeps with his beloved pens. I’m drowning in the pens of the architect.