OF MICE AND FINER MOMENTS

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My good friend, code name: Ms. Bone, was reminding me yesterday of one of our “finest moments” as roommates. We were in our mid-twenties and living in Valley Ranch. Cue the dreamy harp music as we go back in time…

Picture this: A large living room divided the apartment, with a bedroom on opposite sides.   In the middle of the living room sat two couches at right angles to each other. Yes, we each had our very own couch, which comes in handy later. 

One evening, I was in my bedroom for some reason when I heard a great “WHOOP!” from Ms. Bone.  Moments later, another “WHOOOOP!” followed by “Ann!”

I ran out of my bedroom and rounded the corner to find Ms. Bone standing on top of her blue couch, doing some sort of dance. Although I couldn’t identify the dance at first, I had a hunch it was not a happy dance. This was confirmed when Ms. Bone pointed to the floor behind me and babbled “Mouse!”

I leaped three feet from a standing position to the cushions of my couch, gasped so desperately I nearly sucked all the air out of the apartment and began a little “There’s a mouse in our house” dance of my own.  (Told you it wasn’t a happy dance.)

After much debate we decided to attempt to persuade the mouse to exit our 1st floor apartment. In other words, while prancing on the couches and keeping a watchful eye on our little furry brown friend in the corner, we realized every man we knew was either out-of-town, or likely to “assist” by appearing at our door with a camera to record our hysteria for posterity. You can see why persuasion was our preferred choice.

I drew the short straw and was forced to make the first attempts to catch the mouse.  With powerful girl reasoning, I decided to use a sauce pan to try to trap Ricky (detested, misunderstood brother of Mickey). I can only imagine I thought having a handle meant I didn’t have to get too close to him. I approached him several times, arm extended, holding the pan.  As soon as I would lower the pan toward him, he darted in a very appropriate mouse-like way, scaring me silly and causing squeals to erupt from Ms. Bone and myself. This was particularly disturbing because neither of us was prone to squealing about ANYTHING.  In other words, the pan method was a failure.

I hopped back on the couch to begin the “There’s a mouse in our house” dance again. The next method of attack was decided. Broom and cardboard. Ms. Bone would wield the broom, I would wield the piece of cardboard and we would urge him toward our front door which was now hanging invitingly wide open (we hoped).

Although I liked this idea because it meant we were BOTH on the same level with the mouse, I disliked the thought that we might inadvertently a) hurt the mouse in the process or b) annoy the mouse until it attacked one of us.

Using the patented “Advance, Shriek, Retreat” method, we were actually making progress with Ricky. We moved him past the kitchen and were headed in the general direction of the front door when I remembered one important thing. I was a cat owner.

Second important thing: Kahlua had been awakened by the commotion and was now VERY interested in our little game. I heard one low-pitched “meeeeooooow” before Kahlua joined the fray. Luckily, Ricky moved faster than Ms. Bone or I did and made for the open door before inexplicably changing course and running under the door of the coat closet. The coat closet that was still full of boxes and such.  The one that had lots of places to hide. Forever, if necessary.

The next half hour consisted of repeatedly throwing the cat out the back door and watching as she quickly circled the house and re-entered through the still wide open (invitingly, we hoped) front door. The closet was emptied one item at a time, with delicate deliberation and often a little panicky jump in anticipation of a mouse racing across our feet. Kahlua continued to try to get into the closet, we continued to push her out, and the mouse was no doubt busy having a little mouse heart attack.

Aside: I’m not quite sure why we never put the cat in one of our bedrooms. That must have made too much sense for us at the time.

Anyway, just as they say, “It’s always the last place you look,” as Sandy poked the broom handle at the last box in the closet, Ricky came tearing out. We both blocked the attempted route back into the living room (somehow) with broom and that threatening flat piece of cardboard. To our delight, Ricky spun around on his little bony mouse feet and scampered out the front door, making a sudden right into the bushes, Kahlua on his heels. (Don’t worry. We are almost 65% sure he escaped. Maybe even 75%. It’s amazing how quickly you go from “don’t hurt the mouse” to “screw the mouse” when you think you might be co-habitating with said mouse against your will.)

Important lessons from this “finest moment:”  1) We don’t need a man to rescue us.  2)  The higher off the ground your couch is, the better. 3) It would still be nice if a man HAD rescued us, but he would have done it all wrong (according to the “There’s a mouse in our house” dancers).

I DON’T WANT TO KNOW

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There was a comedian the other night on TV whose name I can’t recall, but whose topic intrigued me. He was commenting on how our lives have lost a little something now that we have access to the internet in the palms of our hands. He said we don’t get to feel that longing for information anymore that went unsatisfied for days or even months before the iphone. (And Google, for that matter.)

In my case, pre-iphone and Google, I had Sandy. Sandy was a co-worker, friend and one time roommate. She was also the greatest resource when you needed to know the name of the dog in “Bringing Up Baby” (George) or when to send Patrick Stewart a birthday card. (July 13.) But, Sandy wasn’t always around when I needed answers. Sometimes I had to wait until I ran across someone who could supply the missing piece to the puzzle. That, or open an encyclopedia.

What did we do before technology? Imagine you’re in a coffee shop one day and hear someone mention Elon University. You think, “Where is Elon University, anyway?” You ask around. No one knows. Your friends don’t know. They may hazard a guess, but overall, you just don’t have a satisfying answer. Days go by. Weeks. UNRESOLVED. Then, one day, you are flipping through TV channels and see a report on Elon. You wait until the announcer says, “North Carolina” and instantly feel that surge of relief. How GREAT does that feel? You don’t get that same level of relief when you Google something that stumped you for maybe 15 seconds.

We don’t enjoy that sense of NOT knowing anymore. The possibility that we might NEVER know the answer. To piece together mental evidence until we figure something out, or come across someone else who has a piece of knowledge we lack. That’s how we made friends. That was a conversation. Now, we sit in rooms and make fleeting eye contact with each other between furtive glances at our phones, our fingers itching to brush across that screen.

I’m guilty. Recent earth shattering questions of mine resolved electronically include:

What is it called when someone lacks a sense of smell? (Anosmia. Not “snarfled” as Max insists.)

Who starred in the movie Gods and Monsters? Ian McKellan. (Not Ben Kingsley, as I insisted.)

What foods could cause a person to break out in hives? (Don’t ask.)

Was it Helen Hayes or Lillian Gish in The Unforgiven? (Gish.)

Does a duck’s quack echo? (No. Maybe it was a frog?)

Could I have lived without all that information? Yes.

I promise to make an effort to NOT resolve all my questions with a quick Google search. I promise to WONDER about things and discuss them, rather than immediately cleaning the conversation slate. I promise to better satisfy my intellectual curiosity by feeding it quality over quantity.

I promise all those things – just as soon as I locate the comedian’s name who started this whole thought process. THAT is driving me INSANE.

A GOOD SOLE

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When I began 6th grade at Highland Park Middle School a million years ago, I was not one of the “in crowd.” For one thing, I didn’t have the right clothes. I had one Polo shirt. Maybe 2. Certainly not enough to outfit myself everyday in the uniform of the cool kids which meant wearing not one, but 2 each day. Layered. With collar jauntily flipped up. Secondly, I did not have the shoes. Candies, to be exact. They looked like this:

I remember them well, because they were always at chest level when I saw them. None of the 12-year-old girls in my class could wear them. They just carried them like trophies atop their books as they moved from classroom to classroom. My mother REFUSED to purchase hoochie shoes that I was incapable of walking in. Therefore, any chance of popularity, acceptance, or friendship was simply out of the question.

Having grown accustomed to comfort in my footwear, I shied away from high heels until well into my 20s. I worked in TV production and was always on a set or crawling around some location in search of the perfect shot, so I dressed in jeans and cowboy boots, or back to the trusty tennies.

Sometime in my 30s I discovered the joy and frustration of buying shoes that looked HOT. Ridiculously high heels that were virtually impossible to walk in. (Mom was RIGHT. AGAIN. Damn it.) A few credentials for my girl card are pictured below.

I take my shoes outside every now and then to give them a chance to get out of my closet and see the real world. Trust me, their natural habitat is not concrete. They’re more for sitting, or lounging. Aren’t they pretty? Look how excited they are to be outside! Standing at attention and looking sassy.

 

This is one of my favorites:

I usually don’t put footwear on the table, but since the sole of this shoe has barely touched anything but the bottom of the box it came in, I figured what the heck. I’m too old and stiff to crawl around trying to get a good photo op of a shoe.

All of this brings me to recent events. A friend of mine, Tony Walker, has taken to wearing Vibrams. Have you seen Vibrams?

These are Vibrams. They are the darling of the “running” world right now and are virtually impossible to keep in stock. From what I’ve read about them online, they are like wearing a hug on your feet. Whose feet don’t need a good hug now and then? All the rave reviews are backed by the personal experience of Tony. If forced at gunpoint to surrender either his Cole Haans or his Vibrams, he’d probably hurl the Cole Haans at the gunman and run speedily away – quite comfortably – in the Vibrams.

As you might imagine, he is taking a good deal of good natured ribbing about his footwear selection. After all, as a gay man in Dallas, Texas, and an extremely successful designer, he DOES have a reputation to uphold. That’s why I find his choice all that much more impressive. Look at the facts: Tony came from a “corporate America” background. Suits, ties, the whole shebang. And not Men’s Wearhouse either. Ralph Lauren, Armani, Cole Haan. He must have been the epitome of the impeccable man of business.

And according to him, miserable.

Now, he is living his dream. He’s co-owner of Jones Walker Home. He is respected in the design industry, adored by clients, and friend to a ridiculous number of very nice people. Tony works hard 7 days a week (until just recently when he started allowing himself two days off), and stands for long hours on his feet. On a concrete floor. All of this makes his choice understandable. But more important is what it says about him. Fashion and criticism be damned. He’s made a decision to make comfort and health a priority. Evidence to this can be found in his almost daily bike rides, trips to the gym, diet, and those crazy shoes.

So, when next I reach for a pair of these:

(A pox upon you, Michael Kors.)

In my heart of hearts, I will salute Tony. A person who’s comfortable in his own skin, and not afraid to show it. Someday, I hope to give my aching feet a hug, too. In the meantime, if I want a fashion statement, I think Lady Gaga’s got me covered.

 

(Tony “Five Fingers” Walker.)

“I wear my sort of clothes to save me the trouble of deciding which clothes to wear.”
Katharine Hepburn

FATHER’S DAY CHORES

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Father’s Day is next weekend, the 19th. In the past that meant going to one of Dad’s favorite restaurants – Outback Steakhouse or Red, Hot & Blue. On Saturday I’d pick up something amusing for him – like lottery scratch-off tickets (always a big hit) or maybe a DVD of some TV show he’d just discovered – like Everybody Loves Raymond. (I don’t know why, but both sets of parents seem to discover TV shows a decade after they’re over.)

To me, family events like this always seem a bit of a chore. Not that I don’t enjoy my family. I’m just selfish and don’t like giving up any of my weekend for something I’m “supposed” to do. Plus, I’m not a great gift giver. I’ve NEVER known what to give people. I also never enjoyed trying to get two boys and a husband out the door in time to meet people half way across the metroplex for lunch – or dinner. (For some reason this is reversed in my house. Men are never waiting on me. I wait on them.) Really, that part alone was such a beating it just didn’t seem worth the effort to even take them along. Lord knows I threatened to drive off without them enough.

Last year, as usual, we had lunch with Dad and my stepmother, my brother and sister-in-law. During the meal, Dad went off on some crazy tangent about how the 50s were the best decade of them all, and why. Then, he moved on to bowling and everything he’d learned about it since he started working on the Bowling Museum. (Both discussions were actually connected, although bowling is NOT what made the 50s great.) After lunch we went our separate ways to await the next holiday that would bring us together. As we drove home with a sense of accomplishment, I sighed, relieved to be on the way back to the house for my other weekend chores.

Dad passed away unexpectedly in July. That makes this upcoming Father’s Day the first that I don’t have to wrangle people into the car or freak out about being late, get annoyed with Dad for repeating the same story I’ve heard a thousand times, OR for asking me (again), “You still haven’t seen Deuce Bigalow, Male Gigolo? Funniest movie EVER.” I also don’t have to stress over what gift to buy. His scratch-off lottery tickets are with him.

A word of advice: Spend time with the people you love. Don’t just squeeze it in.

Losing a parent is losing a part of yourself. Your history goes too. Who else can say “I remember when you were 4 years old and so afraid of the dark we had to sit in your room until you fell asleep.” Or from MY dad it’s more like, “Remember when you were 8 and I used to pants you in the grocery store?”

You miss those stories once they’re gone. But mostly you miss the person who told them. Turns out, you can even work up some serious nostalgia for being pantsed in the grocery store.

This year, I know a few things I never really knew before:
1. There will never be another individual in my life who finds no real fault with me, despite proof to the contrary.
2. Father’s Day is not a chore.
3. For the rest of my life, I’ll be watching Deuce Bigalow on Father’s Day.

DESTINATION: GUILTY PLEASURE

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I’ve seen some unexplainable things, and done some things I can’t quite explain.

For those who don’t know, that is the line uttered by Josh Gates at the beginning of each episode of Destination Truth. Strangely appropriate considering the confessional nature of this LetsBlogOff assignment: Guilty Pleasures: What’s You Favorite Show on Television?

I am used to a certain level of defensiveness regarding my viewing choices, but frankly, I say with false bravado, I am a little annoyed by having to defend my absolute adoration of a show that offers so many unique characteristics. It has everything a girl could want. Humor, a real life explorer with degrees in archaeology and drama (huh’?), adventure, exotic locations, cryptozoology, a guerilla-type shooting style, and some snappy editing. Hello? I lost you at cryptozoology, didn’t I? That’s when you started laughing at me and rolling your eyes.

I can’t help it. I found the show a couple of years ago and sat spellbound one Saturday as a Destination Truth marathon unfolded. I fell “in crush” with Josh, the tall, sarcastic adventurer who leads each expedition. I admired Ryder, the spunky yet clumsy female investigator who banters with Josh in village squares, mountain passes and bat-filled caverns. The rest of the crew is equally friendly, fit and enthusiastic about trekking into snake infested jungles or radioactive buildings in Chernobyl. It’s like watching a gamboling pack of Labradors explore the world in search of one-eyed, horn sprouting, man-eating mutants. Plus, they seem like the kind of people you’d hang out with in a bar all night – not believing a single crazy story they told you.

Each show begins with news stories of some wild animal/mystery creature terrorizing a small village. Think Loch Ness or Chupacabra. The team creates a strangely cute, yet menacing animated version of the monster based on eye-witness sightings, grabs their equipment and boards a plane for Destination “My travel agent is fired.”

It’s not really the thought of some monster or undiscovered mutated creature that captivates me. It’s the fact they are out – for instance – on the Serengeti, in the dark, seemingly without weapons, trying to find something like the Mngwa (“ming-wah”) – a saber-toothed feline reportedly larger than a lion. To me, the danger of them finding an actual lion is pretty realistic and worth watching. The potential for the Mngwa mystery to be resolved as a large lion with dental issues is just an added bonus.

While on these adventures, the crew stumbles across poisonous snakes, spiders, bats, bears, and quite a few rock slides. They scuba, raft, rock climb, rappel, go-cart and climb aboard airplanes that tear open like sardine cans in mid-flight. They visit with locals and sample cuisine consisting of just what you’d expect: Grubs, spiders, and other creepy crawly things. Plus, they do it all with chipper attitudes. I’m snarky and insufferable for days after a 1.5 hour flight with slow drink service.

The new season doesn’t start until early 2012, but according to the Syfy press release Destination Truth will be hunting for vampires in a remote Transylvanian village, exploring the reportedly haunted Mayan ruins of Tikal in Guatemala, and descending into one of the world’s biggest caves in the jungles of Vietnam to search for phantoms. They’ll also journey to Kazakhstan (a Destination Truth first), and return to the haunted forest in Romania.

I confess: I can’t wait.

Click here to watch an episode.

To see other LetsBlogOff guilty pleasures, click here.

BAD DECISIONS MAKE GOOD STORIES

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When I was in my early twenties / late teens – back during the Ice Age, (Vanilla Ice, smarty pants), I used to tell my mother I was getting all the wildness out of my system before I was old enough to be charged as an adult. (Gee, maybe I was a little dramatic, as well.)

I also told her I needed material to write about someday. Like Auntie Mame prescribes, I wanted to “Live! Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!” So, I proceeded to gather material based on some random (bad) decisions.

I’m Bored. Let’s Do Something Different: We (my best friend in high school and I) decided instead of sneaking into clubs when we were underage, we would take ourselves downtown to the Fairmount Hotel. The Pyramid Room, to be exact. We would dress up, sit in the lounge, drink Jack and Cokes and listen to the song stylings of “Two’s Company.” What 17-year-old does that? We quit going when we found out “Two’s Company” had a daughter that attended Ursuline Academy with us. This was revealed naturally in conversation as we shared a drink between sets.

I’ll Show Him: My boyfriend stood me up one evening, so I decided to track him down. I must have just left a family gathering because I was dressed decently in a skirt, boots, and rabbit coat. As I trolled the area he was last seen, my car broke down. Dusk was falling. I found myself just off the main drag known for prostitution, and yes, this was before cell phones. I walked to the first open business I found – a gas station – and asked a gentleman who spoke no English whatsoever if I could use the phone. He took a gander at my outfit and decided I was a hooker. I assume as much because he looked very excited while he spoke to me in rapid fire Spanish and waved money at me. While he waved, I frantically searched my brain for the Spanish translation of “My car doesn’t work.”
“Mi coche no trabajo.”

Turns out what I kept telling him was basically, “I don’t work in my car.”

I was rescued by my friend’s mother who looked nothing like a pimp. I’m sure Paco was dreadfully confused by the turn of events.

I Don’t Want A Real Job: I decided what I wanted more than anything in life was to work on a horse ranch. I found an ad in the paper for a Ranch Manager – (Please include photo). Despite the creepy photo request, the couple was very nice and passed the mother approval test. I moved into their house in Mount Pleasant and began working my rear end off. All was magnificently and gloriously horsey until one day when they both left. It appears my boss had begun a relationship with a 21-year-old during his travels. His wife (my other boss) told him to get out, then she too left to visit friends. For about a week. This left me – at 20 years of age and with almost no experience with horses – alone on acres and acres of land with a couple dozen horses to feed and water each day. Oh, and I had to exercise the six horses in the show barn. And there were snakes. Big snakes. They liked to cross your path in the dark when you were watering the horses.

As much fun as it sounds to be the only human being for miles, working with animals that can be a bit cantankerous, and with snakes roaming around like it’s the Bronx Zoo or something, it just wasn’t. I eventually packed up my rodeo queen tiara and sash and headed back to Dallas. (That’s another story.)

So mom, I apologize for all the trouble, but I DID get some decent stories out of it.

And don’t worry. I’m sure payback is coming.

WHAT CAN GO WRONG

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Back in my previous life as a producer of TV commercials, part of my job was to anticipate any potential disasters that could occur on the day of the shoot and be prepared with a solution. As a natural worrier, I was really quite good at this. I spent much of my life imagining the disaster ahead, so getting paid for it was a plus. I don’t think of my attitude as pessimistic, I think of it as preventative. You see, from the earliest days as a producer I learned if I was prepared for it, it didn’t happen. It was almost a game. Had I thought of absolutely everything that could go wrong? Yes, plus some. Did I have a solution? Yes. Did anything I’d planned for go wrong? No.

Sometimes OTHER things went wrong that I hadn’t considered. But it was usually something we managed to fix on the fly, with no real damage. So why didn’t the really scary stuff happen? Because I had imagined the worst and was prepared. I’m sure of it.

Following this “Worry about it, have a plan, and it definitely won’t happen” rationale, I will present a few of the things I fear:

  1. Stepsons will finish college (or not), be unable to find employment, will return home to live on my couch watching TV too loudly for the rest of my natural life. In the end, I will die in the living room and they will simply step over me (if I’m lucky) for the next few months until neighbors complain about the smell. (A little extreme, but you get the drift.)
  2. At least one of my stepsons will make me a grandmother in the next 5-10 years. (In which case #1 now includes a daughter-in-law and baby.)
  3. I will never have enough savings to retire, and instead will be the oldest marketing director on record in an office where the average age is 30. I will be referred to with alarming frequency as “Ann-tique.”
  4. Barbra Streisand will move next door to me.
  5. I will never be 100% pain free again. No neck pain, carpal tunnel, back ache or muscle spasms. (Sometimes, I swear, my hair hurts.)
  6. My husband will leave me for his girlfriend, Scarlett Johansson.
  7. My husband will NOT leave me for his girlfriend, Scarlett Johansson.
  8. I will be at a fancy hotel walking through the lobby and a pair of underwear will fall out of my pant leg. (Oh, wait. That DID happen. At the Ritz.)
  9. That more and more, people will ask who is the eldest – my brother or me. (For the record, he’s 4 years older.)
  10. Did I mention that grandmother thing? Yeah. That is TERRIFYING.

Don’t get me wrong. I worry about bigger issues than these. Family, friends, terrorists, economy, the government… But I can’t control (or try to control) absolutely everything, no matter how much I’d like to.

So from here on out, you people are on your own.

Except for family and friends. You still scare me.

TRIPPING OVER TRAVEL

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I don’t often travel for business, and I’ll tell you why. I don’t like it. Not the business part, that’s no big deal. The travel part is what I dread. It makes me surly, snappish and borderline manic. I’m not sure why. I’ve only had one near death experience on a plane, so that’s not it. I think it’s the whole moo-cow, being herded into groups and treated like an annoyance that gets to me. Who trains people at check-in counters these days? Don Rickles?

Before I even get to the airport my heart is racing. I’m worrying about time, checking my bag, getting through security, getting re-dressed after security, then finding a place to park my exhausted self at the gate with that mass of humanity. (And I mean MASS.) Then knowing. Just KNOWING it’s going to be a full flight and I am going to be crammed in with A) someone who is suffering from what could either be the flu or Ebola, B) someone who has no concept of personal space, or C) both.

This time I had a congested, sneezy, snorky person on either side of me, as I was obviously being punished by God for something and was allotted a middle seat. After one explosive sneeze, the guy on my left fell asleep, only snoring on occasion. To my right was Mr. Bobble Head. Eight-week old children could hold their heads up longer than this guy could. Out of the corner of my eye I’d see his head fall forward, then ZIP, up it would go for about three seconds then BAM, back down again. Up, down, up, down…Repeat for 1 and a half hours.

And what happened to drink service? Maybe 20 minutes in, I was craning my neck around to see where the drink cart was. Answer: nowhere. No one else seemed alarmed by this. In fact, everyone else appeared to have been drugged or lulled to sleep by the drone of the engines, just like people do with their infants who can’t sleep. I was essentially in a giant Oldsmobile circling the block until everyone went nighty-night, or mom and dad got too dizzy to continue.

I was definitely the only one concerned for the welfare of our flight attendants and their cart of goodies. Shortly before our descent, they teetered by and delivered a Sauvignon blanc that was not worth the wait. I was also offered ice cubes for it. Sad face.

Once we were on the ground again, I glared Mr. Snuffly Bobble Head into the aisle and jumped up so quickly I banged my head on the overhead bin. Payback for my bad attitude, and for coveting a seat in first class.

I shouldn’t complain. I’m on the company’s dime at this conference, get to learn a few things, and enjoy some room service while I plot my return trip.

Oh, and I feel like I’m coming down with something, so I will complete this little circle of life by freaking out some poor person who gets trapped in the seat next to ME on the way home. Sniffle. Cough.

GRADUATION DAZE

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In two weeks, my youngest stepson is graduating from high school. I feel Jurassic. This is the kid that was 9 when his dad and I married. I amused myself with the idea of people exclaiming, “You can’t possibly have a 9-year-old!” The truth was, I could easily have had a 9-year-old at that time; and a 12-year-old. Which is good, because that’s what I got. Full time 24×7 motherhood to a couple of boys who had little recent experience living with a woman. Especially a demanding, impatient woman with high expectations and a zero tolerance policy.

Poor things. I think we all suffered culture shock, and I’m not sure we ever got over it. But somehow we all muddled through. His older brother, Derek, is at Missouri, finishing his sophomore year. That brilliant “only for special occasions” brain is finally seeing daylight. He’s going to knock their socks off.

Austin thinks he’ll stick around next year and attend community college to get some basics completed. His father and I are not complaining. I never imagined myself suffering from empty-nest syndrome. Frankly, I’m surprised I haven’t been counting the days in anticipation of a house that has no dishes in the sink, no cabinet doors left open, and my sodas still in the fridge when I want one.

Instead, I remember those little boys on the wedding day in their tuxes. Their dad’s best men. I remember how Austin turned green and nearly fainted during the ceremony. (I TOLD him not to lock his knees.) I think about the times I forced them to watch old movies with me, or listen to my running commentary during the Academy Awards. School concerts and sporting events. Meetings with principals (too many) and teachers (way too many). Then there were the groundings, celebratory dinners and funerals.

It’s been a busy 8 years. So busy, in fact, I probably haven’t told them I think they’re amazing.

Best men, indeed.

OF TWEETS AND TWITS

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Like most normal people, I get a little nervous when I hear the President is going to speak on national security at 9:30 p.m. on a “school night.” I tensed in anticipation of either an imminent terrorist attack, or need to send troops somewhere into the world. As time dragged on with no POTUS is sight, I was doing what comes naturally. Thinking the worst.

Thank goodness for Twitter. I thumbed through my phone while listening to various newsmen tread water (badly). Aha! Oh, look!! Osama bin Laden is dead. Whew. That’s nothing to panic about. That’s good news!

I watched the feed on my Iphone go nuts over the next 45 minutes or so until the President made the announcement official. Frankly, by the time Obama came on, I bet my grandmother even knew the scoop.

One thing quickly became apparent. Scheduled tweets are not always a good idea. I’d be scanning a series of comments about Obama, CNN, FOX, Times Square, etc. and in the mix would be someone with design, technology, or social media pitches. Hello? The rest of the planet is dealing with #OBL right now. Social Media Tip #1: Keep your eye on the ball and your finger on the cancel button.

I couldn’t help but whoop with laughter when I saw a response to Lady Gaga’s (I assume) previously scheduled message:

RT @larrybraverman TURN ON CNN GIRL SOME SHIT IS GOING DOWN RT @ladygaga Monsters ready for me 2 announce The Judas Video?

Another comment, not pre-scheduled – I don’t think – was from @ParisHilton around 11:30 p.m. CST: Back in LA. Can’t wait to get home to my pets. I miss my babies.

She caught up twenty minutes later and expressed her happiness with OBL’s demise.

The second thing I noticed Sunday night was the amount of comments that made me uncomfortable for the people tweeting. I wonder if there are any stats available about the number of “unfollows” that occurred Sunday night? Or are Tweeters in general pretty forgiving and open-minded about varying opinions and degrees of, shall we say, bloodthirstiness? I know I typed a couple of things I opted to delete rather than send. It was kinda’ fun to type them, though.

So, as I see it, these are the facts:

The President is a terribly exacting editor-in-chief.

If you’re going to follow someone on Twitter, make it @keithurbahn.

And lastly, Lady Gaga and Paris Hilton are easy targets.

Speaking of targets… Thank you, #Team6.