Oh calm down already, it's Clan with a "C"

                In the past year I’ve been introduced to all things Scottish.  I found out via my best friend Christopher’s wedding research that if you have a clan, you also have plaids.  Yes, plural.  There is an everyday plaid, a formal plaid and a hunting plaid.  So many plaids, I wonder if I might be Scottish.  Considering paisley was invented there, as was modern economics, I just might be.

                When we attended the English wedding in Scotland in July, we were made privy to further Scottish trivia such as family crests and mottos and all manner of interesting things.  The castle where we stayed during the wedding weekend was, oddly enough, his family’s castle (Clan Ramsay), which was appropriate as I was acting as if I was minor royalty already.  How else does one roll whilst in the Kingdom United (since Scotland voted to stay within)?  I feel that my plug for solidarity during my wedding toast may have turned the tides.  The fact that my girl, QE II, moved into Holyrood Castle during the run-up to the vote was coincidental at best.

                Just this morning I went to brunch with two very close friends who have been engaged for about 14 minutes.  We were discussing their wedding plans and I was, quite naturally, filling them in on my opinions (also plural) about themes and color schemes.  The bride-to-be is part-Scottish by background and we looked at the formal plaid which is green and red.  While beautiful, it fell a shade too far into the Christmas holiday spectrum for a proper wedding. 

                While looking at the hunting plaid, her fiancé found some history of her family including crest, motto and enemies.  Yes, dear readers, if you are Scottish, your clan has longstanding nemeses.  Those who share her surname (being withheld because it’s more interesting that way) apparently have Clans Kerr and Douglas as their long-standing enemies.  She couldn’t think of anyone off-hand that she knew with those last names so we didn’t have to plan an attack or anything.  Instead we talked about her impending trip to Tiffany’s to get her engagement ring sized since her knuckles aren’t actually as large as she thinks they are.  She is a member of Clan Crazy Females with Weird Body Issues That Don’t Actually Exist otherwise known as Clan Women.  Almost all women belong to it as do some dudes, especially here in the Bay Area.  I am not of that particular Clan.  I think I’m skinnier than I actually am.  I call me Clan Awesome (And Don’t Burst My Bubble, Please).  I love a good parenthetical encased in a title, don’t you?

                My personal enemies (plural to an absurd degree) are people in bad outfits and people who are rude, stupid or both; I call these Clan Tacky Masses and Clan Big Donkeys respectively.  There is also Clan Look Here Pawpaw (drivers who are too slow and can’t turn or park quickly or correctly) as well as the Clan Are You Seriously Writing a Check at Safeway (Making Me Wait) and Clan Get Off Your Cell Phone and Get Your Ridiculously Involved Caffeinated Beverage and Get Out of My Way (So I Can Get My Warmed Chocolate Chip Cookie That I’m Lying to My Nutritionist About to Go With My Black Iced Tea With Splenda and Yes I know How Bad Fake Sugar is For My Liver) At Starbucks.  I can't forget the sports-related Clan Stop Singing the National Anthem Like You're a Back-up Singer for Ray Charles.  This Song was Written by a Poet in 1800something and He Wasn't Expecting You to Start Scatting in the Middle (or Just Shut Up Already and Have Someone Play it on the Trumpet) and the work-related Clan Stop Reading Your Slide Presentation to Me (I Have the Gift of Literacy).

                I don’t know if a Clan Thompson exists but based on a lifetime of knowing and living with and near them, I feel pretty sure their enemies would be the Clans No Biscuits, Live in Town, Cute Clothes/No Overalls and Febreze. 

                All these parentheticals have wore me down so that I almost forgot my favorite Clan, The Highlander Social Club at the Mississippi University for Women.  It goes without saying that they are firmly ensconced in Clan Awesome, but definitely in the no need for bubble-bursting instructions section.  
               And that is all I'm saying.

How to Irritate Gay Republican Southern Baptist Bovines in 400 words or less

                I recently mentioned how much I like Chik-Fil-A to a friend.  As a gay man, he was appalled that I still support them.  As a theoretical gay man, I don’t understand why I am expected to boycott Chik-Fil-A.  Why do my gastronomic peccadilloes have to link-up with my sexual orientation, which at this point might as well be “Disinterested former Southern Baptist, looking for clearance-priced Brooks Brothers”?  I am not interested in dating anyone of any gender right now.

                What I am interested in is enjoying some of those chicken minis for breakfast.  Have you eaten one?  Now I wasn’t around to taste the manna that God provided the children of Israel back in the day, but it has been described as something akin to a honey flavored wafer.  I know chicken minis are probably horrifyingly processed and reek of calories and butter but they are delicious!  Chicken minis will be served in heaven, y’all.  Seriously.  I feel pretty sure Mr. Cathey is setting up a franchise right now.   And I hope he is.  In heaven, that is; his financial dealings with Jesus are between him and Him.  On that note, I recently found out that one of my friends attended church with Robin Williams in San Francisco and his pastor stated at his funeral that he was a Christian, so that makes me happier.  I’m glad I’ll see Mork in heaven.  Somebody is going to have to balance out all those Republican sour-pusses who assure us they are God’s chosen few.

                Plus I like anyone with the last name of Cathey ever since I saw a photo of a Miss Judy Ann Cathey who was some sort of Queen of Queens at some Fiesta of Five Flags or whatever from my mother’s yearbook for the semester she went to Northeast Louisiana State University in 1964.  Anything that combines beauty queens and fried chicken is alright by me.  This is where an Amen would be appropriate, in case you needed prompting.

                Believe what you want to believe and boycott what you want to boycott but keep your opinions out of my mouth; I’ve got enough of my own in there.  And I need to leave room for some sweet tea alongside that honey-kissed chicken goodness from the folks that introduced America to poultry-phobic, illiterate cows.

            And that is all I’m saying because my food is getting cold.

The Ugly Shoe Diaries

                I’ve always been told that you can’t miss what you never knew existed but I don’t necessarily think that is true.  If I had lived in the days before air conditioning I feel pretty sure that I would have longed for someone to invent some system for, I don’t know… cooling my home?  And I would have been vocal in that longing.  Case in point, my sister and I invented bottled water in 1975 on a trip to my grandparent’s farm.  We discussed a length our desire for “water in a Coke bottle” on that trip because as delicious as it is, sometimes Mr. Pibb does not quench a 4 year-old’s thirst quite the way water can.

                And I was thinking about this as I remembered shopping for school shoes back in the day when we had school shoes and church shoes and that was it.  That day was in 1981 when I was about to begin sixth grade at Will Rogers Elementary School in Burns Flat, Oklahoma.  And all the Hee Haw fans said, “Salute!” 

                I had never been given much control over my wardrobe at that point and to be honest I had never given it much thought.  Trying to be as much like my Dad as possible, I voluntarily wore vests, football jerseys and motorcycle t-shirts without much introspection.  My mother usually directed my choices once I grew out of Garanimals and as she was one of the four most elegant women I’ve ever known, I trusted her implicitly.  As an aside, the other three on that list were Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn and my Aunt Charlotte Rushing.  My mother was resplendent in her wool plaid skirts, high-necked blouses with ribbon ties and velvet blazers that were the height of fashion in those days.  Over all those outfits she wore her suede coat with fox collar and I thought she was just about the grandest thing in the world.  We had a little more money than was normal back then although I was only aware of this in retrospect. 

                As Burns Flat was a tiny town containing only a Tom’s Thriftway and a Dairy Queen, we had sojourned to Elk City, home of that’s year’s Miss America Susan Perkins, to buy our shoes with my brother, sister and neighbor Angie.  Leather Nikes were “the thing” but something drew me to the golf section of the sporting goods store.  Maybe I was blinded by the purple swan on the Gloria Vanderbilt jeans my sister wore.  Or maybe she just shoved me in that direction.  She wasn’t particularly nice during that time as she had been forced, as a punishment, to stop listening to her 45 of Blondie’s “The Tide is High” and since it was the only 45 she owned, she was UNHAPPY, folks. 

                I didn’t have a frame of reference for preppy or really anything other than country as the men in my family only wore boots.  Work boots, cowboy boots, dress boots for church, hunting boots.  The only other pair of shoes I owned was, in fact, a pair of boots.  That was what we wore to church.  I never questioned it; I just wore them.  But I knew, somehow, that I wanted a dressier shoe.  I didn’t know what or why but I had to have not a boot.  After some serious questioning from my mother and a reminder that these would be the only pair of shoes I would have to wear to school, I ended up with a tan Saucony that I can only describe as a cross between a saddle oxford and a bowling shoe.  I thought they were amazing.  My shopping companions were not as taken with my fashion choices. 

                They looked like something you would wear to church if you lived in town and didn’t own overalls.  Like something a lawyer would wear or an architect, as if I had a frame of reference for professional men’s footwear.  The only professionals I had any contact with were teachers and preachers and even most of them wore those boot/shoe hybrids we called “preacher boots”.  All the males in my family wore their dress boots to church.  My Dad, on the rare occasion that he actually went to church, wore boots.  It may have been to ground him should he be struck by lightning upon entering but these are thoughts I wisely kept to myself.

                My Dad’s reaction of complete confusion, when he came home from work, was my first inkling that he and I were not cut from the same cloth; that cloth being a khaki Carhartt work shirt starched by my mother until it literally stood on its own in the corner.  The extreme starch was to keep the fire from his welding rods from burning through as he worked building oil rigs on the barren wind-swept plains of the OK state.

                And the shoes were just the beginning.  That year for my birthday was the first time I asked for non-sports related clothing, specifically a striped velour sweater and brushed corduroy pants.  I was a vision in fake velvet, do you hear me?   Of course, this caused me to feel the need to double down on the Dad-pleasing to make sure he still liked me.  I feigned amusement for my nickname, JD (for JD Hogg from the “Dukes of Hazzard”) and writing an essay about my hope of a career similar to my father’s when that was the last thing I wanted to do.  After a very short lifetime spent on farms doing all manner of unenjoyable things I simply wanted a career indoors.  I didn’t care what I had to do; I was doing it inside with the bought air, people.  And I was determined it would be something that would be so amazing that no matter what they ever found out about me, it would be okay.  If I were rich enough I could just buy everyone presents, because giving gifts is how you show affection.  At least that’s what my Dad taught me, intentional or not.  Since I had no money to buy presents, I had to gift him with what was available to me:  acquiescence to whatever it was he wanted me to do.  From playing football and voluntarily wearing turquoise belt buckles and bolo ties to pretending it didn’t bother me when he called me names or that I really was excited to receive a Bowie knife with an 8-inch blade and snakeskin handle for Christmas when I was in 5^th grade.

                I may have been without a frame of reference for preppy, but I was starting to realize what I didn’t want to be and that was him.  Pretty heady stuff for an 11 year-old whose largest life lesson to that point was "how to fake like you like that knife you just got for Christmas".  For an excellent use of said knife, I refer you to previous blog post dated November 26, 2012 "The Perks of Knowing a Good Ol' Boy".  And that is all I'm saying for now.

Here he is, Miss America...scholar

                As there is a lot of buzz around our newly crowned Miss America, I feel that I need to throw my crown in the ring, so to speak.  I am a supporter, fan and volunteer for the Miss America system and I know a few things and I wanted to make sure my loyal readers are privy to all the information rolling around this ample noggin of mine.

                First things first, the Miss America system has a talent component, which is one of the main differences betwixt us and the Miss USA system.  That came about in 1950 when Yolanda Betbeze, an opera singer from Alabama refused to go on a swimsuit tour for major sponsor Catalina Swimwear, declaring that she was a serious musician, not a swimsuit model.  When Lenora Slaughter, Miss America Director, supported Ms. Betbeze, Catalina Swimwear threatened to pull their sponsorship.  Miss Slaughter stood her ground and Miss America 1949, Jacque Mercer from Arizona, supposedly quipped at the press conference, “Why don’t you go start your own pageant.”  Whatever the case, they did start their own pageant and that is Miss USA, which has no talent category.

                As to our newest Miss America, Kira Kazantsev, and her questionable talent, I have a few things to say.  Mind you when I use questionable, it is only in reference to the questioning that it has received, not any opinion of her performance.  One thing about Miss America scoring that you need to know is the Interview category, which accounts for 25% of the final score, is the first interaction each contestant has with the judging panel.  This is where pageants are won because a favorable performance in interview inevitably colors the remaining scores from the judges.  As someone who has served as a judge at the state level and interview coach at the local and state level, I can assure you this is a reality.  And the interviews can be brutal.  Judges are allowed to ask any question of the contestants, from controversial topics in the news to their opinions about any number of provocative issues.   Because despite what you may think, the Miss America system is hiring a spokesperson; not simply crowning a beauty queen.  Your talent, while important, isn’t the deciding factor.  If you are a singer, you may sing at 30% of your appearances.  If your talent is any of the long list of unusual talents that have won the crown, not so much.  There have been trampoline acrobatics, dramatic monologues, poetry recitations, directing the Miss America Orchestra, and playing marimba, flute or violin and the infamous hula dance that many have mentioned.

                What you may not know about that “hula dancing” Miss America, Kaye Lani Rae Rafko of Michigan, was that she spent her year traveling the country bringing focus to hospice care, specifically patients with AIDS, as she was an Oncology Nurse.  Did you get that?  She talked about AIDS.  In 1988.  Well before most of the country was comfortable acknowledging it much less doing something about it.  And this was before the requirement for public service.  It was due to Miss Rafko’s work that the pageant implemented the Platform portion of the system where each contestant at the local, state and national level is required to log hundreds of volunteer hours simply to meet competition criteria.

                Since we didn’t see Ms. Kazantsev’s interview I can only believe that it was a crucial factor in her winning the pageant.  Her talent wasn’t overly impressive but it was different and it was current and it showed many young women that you don’t have to sing opera to compete. 

                Additionally, once the Top 5 is chosen, all the previous scores are erased and the young ladies are ranked by the judges according to who they think should be Miss America, First Alternate and so on.  The young lady with the most points after that ranking, regardless if she squeaked or streaked into the Top 5, will win the crown.  Public speaking and the ability to think on your feet are incredibly important.  And before you start saying, “Remember that girl that sounded so dumb…” I ask you to go to YouTube and look for those videos and realize those were Miss USA and Miss Teen USA contestants.  Miss America contestants are poised, well-spoken and intelligent.  And whatever you feel about her victory, I am withholding judgment until I see how well I feel she will do, based on my impression of her answer to a very tough on-stage question.  Couple that with the fact her platform focuses on domestic violence, I can’t think of a more appropriate and timely spokesperson for our nation.

                And that is all I am saying.

If you can get lean from reading, I'm headed toward skinny

                One of my favorite books is Cheaper by the Dozen by Ernestine Gilbreth Carey and Frank Gilbreth, Jr.  I also like the movie but only the one from the 1950s, not the re-make with Steve Martin.  The only two things that these movies have in common are the title and the fact that there are 12 children present.

                Anyone who has ever read this book, and the sequel Belles on their Toes, knows of their parents (Frank and Lillian Gilbreth) had an interest and careers in motion study and efficiency.  I never gave it much thought other than being impressed they had devised ways to teach their children everything from the most efficient way to take a bath, memorize the planets or committ to memory complex math formulas. 

The Palo Alto Veterans Affairs Healthcare System, where your humble narrator works, is on a lean journey.  And I’m not talking about those horrible boot camp competitions about who lost more weight or ran more miles or other such nonsense.  I like to be competitive in areas where I can excel like Miss America or Music trivia or even single-handedly raising the level of fashion at a facility with 4,000 employees.  Every.  Day.  That is a skill, people.  Anybody can cut out carbs for a length of time before they become angry and start attacking people.  I think maybe these ISIS folks just need a Snickers or a some Doritos.  No?  Then you explain that whole mess to me.

The VA’s lean journey is one of looking for efficiency, for the best way to do anything, from taking blood samples to cleaning patient rooms to buying items for home use to training staff.  And lean isn’t an acronym.  It means just what you think; cutting fat or waste.  And that may mean time, paperwork, meetings, steps, whatever is unnecessary or repetitive.  Like me having to tell you to buy my book (A Gone Pecan).  My last royalty check was for $6.39 so thank you to the 6 people who bought an e-book.  I don’t know where that 39 cents came from, but the Starbucks on California Avenue thanks you, too.

I’ve been reading a biography of Cheaper’s mother, Dr. Lillian Moller Gilbreth, and have learned so much that is germane to my journey as a lean learner and leader.  Yes, your fearless Dustin is the leanest leader in Palo Alto, by the Toyota definition, not those hateful people that created the body mass index chart. This is the thinnest I’ve been since I was wearing my Winnie the Pooh mock turtleneck in kindergarten in 1975 and they have the nerve to call me overweight.  Rude, I tell you.  Rude!

Dr. Gilbreth was originally from the Bay Area, back in the early 1900s when Oakland was still fairly agrarian and not the bullet-riddled bedroom community it has become.  And, yes William Cassidy, I know that Lake Merritt is a “safe” area in Oakland but I’m not dodging gunfire to eat at that restaurant again.  Those chilaquiles weren’t THAT great.  She was among the first to combine the use of psychology within engineering and was awarded her PhD in Industrial Psychology (from Brown University) in 1915, which was the first degree awarded in that field.  Additionally, her fatigue and motion studies helped develop the field that is now called ergonomics.  And not to get all nerdy on you, but HOW COOL IS THAT?!?

This is why I love reading non-fiction.  I can read and learn things to actually implement in my life to make myself and those around me even better.  And these are things that aren’t theoretical, this is reportage on people who actually did things and taught and impacted lives.  Fiction is great for when I want to withdraw into a make believe world, but I don’t have enough time to do that and impact those around me in a way that I feel is significant in the limited amount of time I have on the planet.  I turn two score and four years old on October 2 which is at best middle-aged for someone whose most recent ancestors considered gravy a beverage.  It would be helpful if I died at 88 because, according to my 401K, I will have a significant nest egg when I retire if I wait until the 35^th of Never-uary.  True story.

And I guess that is all I’m saying for now, other than go read some non-fiction.  I’ve got lots of suggestions, if you are so inclined to ask.

P.A.S.S.I.O.N. isn't just a cheesy 90s tune

                Today I sat in church and quasi-listened to the sermon.  Mind you, my lack of engagement was not due to a lack of interest on my part or a lack of interesting things to say on the part of the pastor.  What kept me from involvement in anything related to Jesus was my neighbor in the row behind me and her uncontrolled child, whom I will refer to as Jeremiah in order to keep this somewhat Biblical.  Jeremiah is a toddler I think, but these days who can tell.  In Silicon Valley everyone looks like they’re twelve and everyone is tiny, y’all; tee-niney, as my grandmother would say.  However, based on his vocabulary, I’d posit a guess of two; three at the outside. 

                Now I don’t know much about Jeremiah other than he is passionate about trucks and his mother could use some parenting tips, including directions to the nursery, so I won’t take the following notes in my sermon journal, “Give TRUCKS! everything you TRUCKS! have to TRUCKS! God for a TRUCKS! life.”  I’ve heard of a hard sell before, but I feel pretty sure the FORD/CHEVY/DODGE people haven’t started invoking Jesus to close a sale…yet.     

                My favorite reading genre is non-fiction.  I usually try to mix in a work of fiction every third book or so but I have been focusing on several works of non-fiction these last few weeks.  I just finished with “Things a Little Bird Told Me” by Biz Stone, co-founder of Twitter; “The God-First Life” by Stovall Weems and a Reader’s Digest article by Malcolm Gladwell titled “The Late Bloomer Phenomenon”.  The interesting thing about all three of these is there is a component telling (me) to find what I am truly passionate about.  And I wondered just what that would be.  I also had to admire God for putting all those things in my face.  He's met me before and knows that I am sometimes slow to take a hint. 

                I watched the film, “The Hundred Foot Walk” yesterday and was struck by the main character, Hassan’s love for food and cooking.  His passion was demonstrated by the look of rapture on his face with the closing of the eyes and the savoring of each bite, every time he ate something new.  This delirium was first evidenced when he ate sea urchin and that made me suspect his taste buds because that is one of the five things that I refuse to eat.  It is disgusting and so is liver, cottage cheese, oatmeal and flan.  And the name doesn’t help.  Sea urchin sounds like an extra from Oliver Twist if it had taken place on a boat. 

                I tried sea urchin for the first time at one of those foo-foo eateries where you have nine courses of tiny things and you swear you’ll never get full but you end up stuffed and feeling about six kinds of fancy and twelve kinds of broke. And I love to be all pretentious and what not, but even that has its limits.  Needless to say, sea urchin was tried...and found guilty.  Como se dice, “nasty”? 

                As my movie companion, Lisa Ann and I discussed on the way home, I tried to pinpoint a moment in my life that I had been as rapturous as Hassan was when he tasted béchamel sauce for the first time.  I was thrilled when I received Electronic Battleship for Christmas in 6^th grade and there is a photo of me looking every bit the Cub Scout earning his Happy Badge, but I didn’t have to play it every day.   I enjoyed playing the trumpet and did so for 10 years but I stopped playing in 1990 and haven't touched it or missed it since.  I love to sing but when I had to drop out of choir due to work, it didn't crush me.  And I know you shouldn't compare yourself to others but I’ve read stories and heard people who say, “I yearn to write”, “I have to play the piano”, and “I must create”.

                I love my career, but if I had to stop tomorrow I think I would be able to soldier on.  I get excited about finding a bargain while shopping but it doesn’t get me out of bed in the morning.  I tried to think of anything that I am passionate about, that I must do; something that I willingly place in my schedule every day.  Unlike Jeremiah, I am not passionate enough about TRUCKS! something to yell it TRUCKS! out in public without shame or even awareness TRUCKS!  I would love to be all holy and say that I am passionate about God but knows the truth.  I love Him very much but am more than a little ashamed to say that I am not passionate about worshipping him every day.  I read my Bible daily and listen to KLOVE religiously but I will flat out forget what I’ve learned as soon as somebody cuts me off in traffic or gets on my nerves at work or any number of other petty nuisances that shouldn’t cause me irritation or worry, but do. 

                And it bothered me that I don’t have a passion for something.  I enjoy writing but those readers who are waiting patiently for a sequel to A Gone Pecan can tell you that it is not something I do on a consistent-enough basis to have actually finished it.  I blog fairly regularly but have gone weeks without posting something and haven’t found myself needing to express a thought or opinion.  This caused the very dramatic question, “Am I dead on the inside?” 

                Now that we’ve both rolled our eyes, I can tell you that I have decided to really pay attention to where I place my focus and energies over the next few weeks to see if I can identify what really makes me tick.  And I would love it if you would share what you’re passionate about and, those of you who know me, what you think I’m passionate about or suggest ways I can figure it out.

                And that’s all I’m saying for now, except TRUCKS!

Get your head out of your...phone

                Those of you who know me know that I am an uncle, not a parent, and I do not take that duty lightly.  From my actual nieces and nephews, like the eleventy-foot tall Payton and the sweetest child in all of Hawaii, Hannah, and the most ardent Saints fan west of the Mississippi River, Tanner.  Hannah was recently given the Golden Heart Award by her classmates in sixth grade for being the most loving and compassionate person in her grade.  Those who knew me when I was a student at Tylertown High may remember that I was voted Most Polite.  For those of you who just started laughing, you’re just being rude, but I totally get it.  Now, I don’t know if there was some sort of conspiracy afoot, like when everybody kept voting for Sanjaya on American Idol, but I accepted the accolade.  To turn it down would have been…impolite.

                I also have a not-really-niece whom I adore, a precocious displaced Texan named Pearson Mary Eckrich, who has been taken by her handle-bar-mustachioed father to the wilds of Upstate New York.  And I only mention any of these sweet kiddoes because I am at a loss to explain how so many parents have supposedly accidentally left their children to die in a hot car.  I simply do not get it.  And I find, when you are about to pass judgment on someone, it’s good to give context.  And I am about to pass judgment all up and through here.

                Now I admit that I have done some crazy things in vehicles.  Some I cotton to and some I refuse to admit due to my lack of knowledge of statute of limitations in all 50 states.  But I can tell you that if I were transporting a PERSON, fruit of my loins or otherwise, I would remember they were there regardless of events that unfolded.  For example, if I were to visit the Eckrichs in New York and volunteer to drive Pearson to pre-school, I would not forget she was in the back seat even if Benedict Cumberbatch were to land on the hood of my car wearing Incredible Hulk Underoos, holding a koala bear in one hand and a copy of my book in the other.  And I am most certainly placing blame on any parent so pre-occupied with anything as to forget their child for the length of time it takes to die in a car.

                Based on what the media has stated, that one guy was focused on Olympic level nastiness through texts, which was surprising considering he wasn’t even remotely attractive.  Other cases have other reasons; however, it seems to me that this forgetfulness is a by-product of the ludicrous level of self-centeredness that has overtaken our society.  We don’t look at each other anymore.  We don’t talk to each other anymore.  All we do is look at those blasted phones.  All day.  Every day.

                And don’t get me wrong, I look at my phone too.  But not while entering or exiting my car.  Anyone who is my Facebook friend, and some have stated they will only accept my friend request when I stop posting pictures of my injured feet, knows that as agile I once was, I have somehow become less mountain goat and more fainting goat, in respect to agility, mind you.  I need to be focused on the getting in and the getting out of my car in a manner conducive to allowing the optimal view of each of my fantastic outfits.  My public have expectations, y’all.  True story.

                We simply don’t pay attention to each other anymore and that’s what’s wrong with this country.  We have our prejudices and our preconceived notions and since we aren’t really up to meeting new people in person, we don’t have the opportunity to hear other opinions or exchange ideas.  We simply find those with whom we agree and then we post all manner of opinion and dare someone to disagree.  And I’m aware that when I’m pointing one finger at you, I’ve got three pointing at me (hearing my Mother’s voice in my head) but we all need to pay more attention to the world around us.

                And, yes, I see the irony in telling someone to get off Facebook in a blog that is mostly shared through Facebook, but it doesn’t mean that my opinion isn’t valid.  Start caring about those around you by actually looking at and talking to them and listening to them and having really great conversations that don’t devolve into shouting matches.  A rigorous debate is a great thing. 

I recently attended a wedding in Scotland and while there, a number of us retired to the library of the castle where the event took place to escape the riotous volume of the dance band and because we were tired.  English weddings last all day and night, people.  It is just like “Four Weddings and a Funeral”.  And I’ll be the first to admit that the main reason we were feeling chatty was due to poor cell phone reception since wi-fi strength in rural Scotland is about how you would expect.  But we made friends and disagreed and heard extremely unique points of view considering there were an anthropologist, performance artist and government bureaucrats among us.  And it was wonderful and enlightening.

                And if starring in the mini movie that continually runs through my head has taught me anything it’s that you can create your own reality any way you want, but you might want to see what’s out there before you made your decision.  If I had culled my reality from my time before I left Mississippi in my early 30s, I would still be driving a purple Buick, wearing fashions from Dillard’s Big and Tall Collection and thinking Brooks Brothers was people I may or may not have gone to school with in Texas whose last name was Brooks.  And nobody needs that, am I right?

                And to circle on back to my original thought and just to make sure you don’t ever forget anyone simply ask the question, “Anybody up in here?” before you exit your car.  But keep in mind if the response is in an adult’s voice, you need to run like you are being chased, because odds are you’re about to be.

                And that is all I’m saying.