The Blog Is Dead! Long Live the Blog!

Posted on by March 11, 2011
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Mamacita says:  Blogging is dead?  Says who?  Blogging may have changed, but bloggers still rule the internet.  Bloggers are helping people form viable opinions, giving people first-hand information, helping people make purchasing decisions based on word-of-mouth and actual “regular people” experience with a product, and giving people hope by sharing real life with the world.

Notice that I did not say “ordinary life” up there.  There’s a reason for that.

There is no such thing as “ordinary life.”  And if there were, who would want an ordinary life?  The word “ordinary” is as offensive as is the word “average.”  Average is as close to the bottom as it is to the top.

When we read blogs we are being invited to come in, sit down, and share.  The more we share, the more we learn.  The more we learn, the more we know.  The more we know, the less likely we are to be mean, hateful, selfish, judgmental, and apt to fall for every fad, bit of gossip, mean-spirited rant, or “news” item from somebody’s viewer-supported “religious” icon.  Bloggers share themselves with the world.  Bloggers enable all of us to peek in at the windows of other bloggers, helping us learn about each other and get to know each other and learn from the mistakes and successes of others and get some good recipes for banana bread while we’re at it.  Bloggers are many and more diverse than anyone could ever imagine.  Bloggers tend to be less bigoted and more accepting than non-bloggers because bloggers see, daily, almost-first-hand, that we are all alike in all the important ways.

No, bloggers are not, for the most part, YOUR ONLY SOURCE for world news.  Bloggers are, however, an excellent source for “I’m right here at the spot and here’s what I am seeing” news.

Twitter is awesome and I adore it.  Ditto, Facebook.  It’s on the blogs, though, that people will get the rest of the story that’s usually only hinted at on the shorter formats.

We old-school bloggers have long known what the newer bloggers are just now realizing: the Blogosphere is full of actual people who actually know something about something and are willing to share that knowledge with anybody who might want or need it, and that, my friends, is what friends do.

Is it possible to make real friends on the internet?  Definitely.  Do bloggers really meet other bloggers in real life?  YES.

Another point I’d like to make:  our online friends are as real as any other kind of friend.

Our grandparents’ friends were usually limited to the same community.  Our parents’ friends may have extended to a few college friends but the main group was in the same area.  Bloggers, on the other hand, have no geographic limitations.  We can call someone in Outer Mongolia a friend, sight unseen, simply because we read each other’s blogs, talk via all kinds of wireless magical devices, share ideas, advice, laughs, tears, tragedies. . . the list is endless.  Some of us now earn our living because of someone we met online, became friends with, and were then hired because of the blogging connection.  Some people use their blogs mainly for making m0ney via product pimpage; these are my least favorite blogs as they don’t give their readers any insight into the PERSON behind the blog, but they do work for people who are interested in such things.

Item:  I make most of my purchases these days based on blogger recommendations, but only if the recommendation is an aside from the blogger’s regular writing.

Blogs can keep us updated as to recent work-related developments.

A company’s blog tells us that this business cares enough about its customers and potential customers to keep them updated, handle customer complaints publicly, inform us of new ideas and products, and just generally let us know what’s going on and considered important in the business itself. The customer service aspect of a company blog is especially important, as a business’ handling of complaints, etc, will often determine whether or not a customer – or his/her many friends – return.

No, blogging is not dead.  Even old-school blogging is not dead; it’s still alive and breathing and doing all the awesome things it’s always done.  And in case you’re wondering, “old school” doesn’t mean “old blogger.”  It just means a blogger who saw, long ago – which isn’t really all THAT long ago in internet terms –  the awesome cool and community potential that blogging presented.

Blogging is not dead.  If this is what you really think, perhaps you need a cooler group to hang out with. Or maybe you’re just a little bit too cool for your own britches.

Or, maybe it’s just YOUR blog that’s dead.  Don’t judge the rest of us by your own failings.

The blog is not dead.  The blog is very much alive, and very drastically affecting our lives in many, many ways.

It’s not all about purchasing power, either.  That’s the least of blogging.

Or, perhaps it’s just some kinds of blogs that are dead.

Old school bloggers, let us rejoice that we had the brains and guts to begin and continue to blog.  You all know who you are.

Some blogs might be dead, but not ours.  Long live the blog!

I Am Forever Out Of Season

Posted on by March 6, 2011
6

Mamacita says:  We don’t use our front door much unless we have houseguests, and then mainly because we don’t want anybody to risk tripping over something as they follow the tiny path of nonclutter through the garage to the outer door that we mostly use when entering and exiting the house.

No, we don’t really even SEE the front door much, unless it’s December and I’m hanging a big beautiful wreath on said door.

I mention this tonight because said wreath is still hanging on said door.  I use my non-use of the door as my main excuse; who remembers what she never sees, after all?

However, whenever we have day after day after day of pouring incessant torrential rain, for some reason I can’t STOP think of that out-of-season wreath hanging on the front door for all the world to see and pass judgment on as it hangs helplessly, in March, and dripping because it’s thoroughly soaked and can’t be brought into the house until it’s completely dried out which will take more weeks and by then I’ll have forgotten about it again and won’t find it until it’s time to hide Easter eggs, and I’ll be so embarrassed at being THAT PERSON who still has a wreath on the door in springtime that I’ll probably seclude myself in the dining room and devour all the Reese’s Eggs in spite of my diabetes and overall fatness.

I’ve been obsessing so much over that soaking wet Christmas wreath that I’ve hardly had time to notice the large black iron basket overflowing with golden balls and candles sitting there on top of the tiny little corner table in the foyer right beside the front door, and which I walk past at least a dozen times a day.  Apparently, it has mutant powers and is fighting so hard for survival that it becomes invisible whenever it senses my presence.

I don’t have the excuse of it being soaking wet, either.  I haven’t thought up my excuse for leaving it be yet, in fact.  If you have any suggestions, please, bring ’em on.

Because the fact is, whenever I DO “see” the basket of golden glowing balls and candles there, it still makes me smile.  In fact, I usually smile twice.  Once for the general coolness of the black basket full of golden balls and candles, and once because I’m such a tool for having a Christmas basket of balls in my foyer in March.

Come on over and see it.  Use the front door so you can see the wreath.

Every Day Is Grammar Day

Posted on by March 5, 2011
2

punctuationMamacita says: Every day is grammar day for people who know how to use their own language correctly.  This, of course, should be everyone who lives in any given country, and it is, for most countries.

Except ours.

The sad fact is that far too many Americans don’t know beans about how to use their own language.  This is inexcusable.  Poor language skills are also poor communication skills, and poor communication skills are responsible for more losses, heartache, and laughter at the expense of the ill-equipped person, than we’ll ever be able to count.

I’d even go so far as to say that ignorance of one’s own grammar is a handicap, except that I fully believe it’s self-inflicted – after a certain age – and self inflictions are one’s own choices and doings bad habits, which are choices, which we are personally responsible for.

I have little sympathy for an adult with no grammar skills who isn’t working like the very dickens to improve those grammar skills  I consider bad grammar to be the easy way out for people who really don’t care about clear communication or how they come across to others, including prospective employers.  I feel that unrepentant bad grammar shows blatant disrespect to our nation, our collective culture, each individual culture, and every person within earshot.

In today’s economy, it’s even more vital that people brush up their communication skills, ie grammar, because for every one highly coveted job opening, there will be several hundred applications.  This gives HR permission to be highly selective, HIGHLY selective, and if your cover letter has a misplaced comma or a misspelled word, why would you even be considered?  There are probably dozens of applications in the stack that were filled out by people more careful than you, better at communication than you, and who want the job badly enough to do a better job of presenting themselves than you did.  Having only to choose between a candidate whose cover letter earnestly vows that the applicant has “always stroved, to prefection” and one whose cover letter vows that she “is a hard worker and a quick learner,” guess who deserves to get the job, and who needs to sign up for a quickie grammar/spelling review course down at the learning center?

It ain’t rocket science; it’s a simple matter of learning how to use one’s own language.  I tell my students at least once a month – ask them; they’ll tell you – that if a business has a misspelling or grammar error anywhere on the premises on anything official, there are probably worse doings back in the kitchen.  Error in the front?  Error in the back.  Misspelling on the signs?  COUNT YOUR CHANGE.

Check out the signs at any place of business; they’re mirrors of the communication skills of the workers and owners.  “No checks excepted?”  Nice!  I’ve got a third party check from Outer Mongolia I’ve been trying to cash for ages; good to know this place is willing to take it.   “Eggs: .99¢”  Super.  But where in the world will I store all those cartons?  The tomato’s are on sale?  The tomato’s WHAT are on sale?

And don’t you hate it when you loose your dog?  Then again, that’s how many of us lose our dogs.

Social media indeed – Every single communication attempt in a place of business is social media, and sometimes it’s telling us to go elsewhere rather than risk our money and our lives in a business that cares so little about communication, ie what its employees and representatives are actually telling prospective customers or clients.

The easiest way to improve one’s grammar skills is to do the same things we did when learning how to speak in the first place:  imitate the grammar of those around us.  Sometimes this must be adapted, naturally, if those nearest to us are Jethro Bodine or Larry the Cable Guy; then again, those people are paid to speak like illiterates and in real life probably have mad grammar skillz that persuaded someone to hire them as spokesmen for Stupid Inc.

Pretending to have bad grammar for big money is one thing, but having bad grammar because one doesn’t know any better is quite another, and quite without excuse.

Students are sometimes offended when the school tries to teach them proper grammar because that’s not how anybody they know speaks.  Families are sometimes offended when their children come home from school trying to speak properly instead of speaking the same way the family speaks.

These families are. . . . well, perhaps I’ve said too much already about mentality and insecurity.  And when people try to play the culture card, I’m further convinced of their contempt for education and intense fear of questioning.  Besides, educated people often speak one way on the job or out in the world, and quite another way when they’re at home.  Knowing how to speak properly doesn’t mean abandoning a culture; it means adding another culture to the one you already have.  Who says one of them has to go?  Nobody.  Keep them both; just know when you need to use them.

Everyone’s grammar skills could use some improvement.  Let us all listen to those around us and learn to differentiate between good language usage and poor communication skills, and try to imitate the speech patterns of people who know their language.

“Enquiring” minds might want to know, but “inquiring” minds want to know the truth.  Statue Of Elvis Found On Mars,  indeed.

P.S.  “Done” is not a helping verb.  I done checked; it ain’t on th’ list.

"I Base Most Of My Fashion Sense on What Doesn't Itch"

Posted on by February 27, 2011
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Mamacita says:  I’d like to tell you that my fashion sense has improved since I wrote this post so long ago, but even though I’ve awoken somewhat to what people are wearing these days, I’m still a flat-out C minus in fashion awareness.

Fair warning: I have no sense of taste when it comes to clothing. My daughter and my sisters and even my son can attest to that. I have a horror of going out in public wearing old-lady clothing, but I don’t always know when I do it. My tastes somehow never graduated from Spencer Gifts and little boutiques and shops that carry only sizes so small they really should be selling Pampers alongside the hemp; you remember – well, some of you remember – those shops that sold the kind of dresses we could wad up in one hand and still have room for a cheeseburger. I can’t wear the clothes I still gravitate towards: for one thing, it would be ridiculous, and for another thing, they only come in size negative-ten. They’re still the clothes my mind likes best, though. In my day, we couldn’t wait to grow out of the “girls” sizes and into the junior sizes. Girls today brag that they “have” to shop at Baby Gap. Size zero, with Victoria’s Secret underneath.   A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair, indeed.

Me, I love hippie clothing; broomstick skirts and long low-necked tops, but fat women don’t look good in broomstick skirts; I think you have to be shaped like a broomstick to look good in a broomstick.

Hush now; I like broomstick skirts.

I am happiest in jeans and old t-shirts, but the t-shirts I like best – my Broadway shirts and a few select sarcastic comments about other people’s mentality – I can’t wear out in public. Why can’t I? Because I think people over a certain age really can’t wear “See me, feel me, touch me, heal me” Tommy shirts without people wondering who would want to do that in the first place. If you’re 80 years old * and wearing a “Truckers do it in the road” shirt ** at Marsh, people will laugh. Well, I do. I have a drawer full of favorite t-shirts that I can only wear around the house for fear of my own critique. Fortunately for my fashion sense, and for the feng shui of the universe, I spend a lot of time around the house.

* Note:  I am not 80 years old.  But some day, I hope to be.

** Neither would I EVER own or wear a “Truckers do it in the road” shirt.  But I’ve seen my share of grandmotherly types wearing it. Out in public.  Without shame.  This scares me.

My children have promised to kill me and bury me in the back yard if I EVER become one of THOSE women.

I’m also way too large to wear what I like best in “dressy” mode. I used to wear dresses and skirts almost daily when I taught; now, I usually wear black slacks and, I dunno, some kind of top that looks teacherish.

That’s why I let Kohls guide my fashion sense much of the time. Heaven knows I need a guide.

I had a favorite dress once. It was green, pale-ish green, and was made of some soft fabric that was, at the time, quite unique. It might possibly have been a forerunner of those microfibers, but a little more silky and less like a blanket. It had three-quarter sleeves – still my sleeve of choice – and a rather low, narrow v-neck with those massive curvy 70’s “woman” lapels. I recognized the lapels as monstrosities even at the time, but as they were a part of this dress I embraced them, too.

The dress hit me between knee and ankle, and had a wide sash that tied in the back. I felt so good in this dress. That dress emphasized my small waist and hid my skinny chicken legs. It showed just enough cleavage that I could wear it to school and still feel sexy. I bought it with my first teacher paycheck and I wore it at least once a week.

I have no pictures of me in this dress, and I’m actually glad, because that frees me to picture myself looking so fine, feeling the dress swish around my legs as I walked around the shared teachers’ office space, knowing everybody else in there was well over forty while I was 23, and I am not even embarrassed to tell you all that when I wore this dress, I would occasionally spin around so I could feel the skirt breathe with me. . . . yes, my dress and I liked to twirl.

When I remember this dress, I can’t really picture the entire thing. I remember parts of it, but not the parts fitting together in any logical way. Possibly that’s because my brain is protecting me from seeing the dress as it really was: a 70’s horror, complete with extra-long attached sash and lapels that would make me gasp and back away if I saw them today, made of slightly ribbed light-weight blanket fabric and the color of green goth Big Lots nail polish.

That dress and I were both a size 5. I bought it at the Diana Shoppe, which burned down shortly thereafter, possibly sparing the world from similar dresses which I probably would have bought and worn and twirled in as well.

Perhaps some disasters were meant to save us from other disasters.

I do own a dress now but I can’t for the life of me remember what color it is.

Maybe I need to start getting out more.

The title? Gilda said it.

No picture of the dress, but I found a picture of 70’s lapels.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.  The hip-hugging bell-bottoms came back; it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be wearing big rounded lapels, too.

Most of you are watching the Oscars as I type.  Keep your eyes open for lapels, if you can take your eyes off the rear cleavage that, this year, is rivaling the front cleavage.

My home ec teacher would have given most of these high-priced designer-name monstrosities a D+ at best.  Some of them look like the rec room busy-work from down at the nursing home.

Then again, what do I know?  I used to twirl, at work, in a green dress that was probably made by the Keebler elves out of leftover tablecloth fabric.

Yes, I Fear I've Definitely Said Too Much

Posted on by February 26, 2011
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Mamacita says:  Several years ago, we cleaned out the garage because it was so full of  “stuff,” we couldn’t even park a car in there.

For a while, all was well. When the weather got cold, I parked the car in the garage and never had to scrape the windshield; it was great. We lived like. . . other people!

Then, our son moved from his large apartment into a studio apartment.

I can no longer park my car in the garage because it’s full of tables, chairs, lamps. . . . things that don’t fit in a studio apartment, but that are still nice furniture that he wants to keep for when he finishes school and moves back into a real apartment or house. Added to all of  his  stuff is more of his father’s;  my husband  is a pack rat and tends to accumulate things. He will try to tell you that a lot of it is mine but that just isn’t true.

Besides enough furniture to start a store, we have most of the usual garage-type things in our garage: cans of oil and gasoline, shovels, hoes, picks, garden hoses, file cabinets we haven’t looked into for years, tools, a freezer, did I mention our son’s stored furniture and boxes, and comic books.

One wall is solid comic books.

Some of them – the Marvels – are Tim’s.   The DC’s are mine.

I especially loved the Legion of Super-Heroes, and I bet most of you have never heard of that.

As you know, I’m no spring chicken, and by this stage even my dreams should have calmed down and become mature and stuff, but I’m still waiting. If I see that stage coming at me ahead of time, I’ll try to jump on it, but I’m making no promises. I’ve seen some of the people riding on that stage and I want no part of it; they look pretty boring to me.

I loved my DC comic books, and I still love them. I don’t love DC comic books NOW – I haven’t loved or bought any since they fired all the good artists (I loved you, Curt Swan) and hired a lot of guys who can’t color inside the lines or write a coherent story line – that would be since the early seventies, I’m guessing – but back when the artists were good and the writers were great, I never missed an issue. The squiggly-line stuff, not so much.  Actually, not at all.

And what do I sometimes dream about at night? On the good nights, that is?

I dream about Saturn Girl and Lightning Lad and Cosmic Boy and Triplicate Girl and Braniac 5 and Mon-el and Phantom Girl and Shrinking Violet and Light Lass and Invisible Kid and Colossal Boy and Star Boy and Sun Boy and Ultra Boy and Dream Girl and Element Lad and Chameleon Boy and – dumbest hero ever – Bouncing Boy. And all the others.

And when I dream about them, I’m one of them. I’d tell you my name and describe my costume, but I fear I’ve already said too much.

I’m just an old lady woman, after all.

P.S.  A few months ago we had to rent a storage unit.  Sigh.  Does anybody have the phone number for Hoarders handy?

P.P.S.  Come on over and see for yourself.  Watch your step.

Center of the Universe, You Say? I Think Not.

Posted on by February 24, 2011
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Mamacita says:  All my life I have loathed the expression, “Act your age.” Even as a child I wondered how a person could ‘act’ an age; the best I could ever do was to ‘be’ an age. “Act” always connoted phoniness to me.

I totally agree with the little girl in this joke. How can a child know how a certain age is supposed to act, when the child has never BEEN that age before? We need to be guided into each age, not tossed.

Remember in the movie “Hook” when Robin Williams turns on his young son in anger and tells him to stop acting like a kid? And the child’s response was, ‘But Dad, I AM a kid!”

Often in schools, teachers mark students down for being “immature.” This is indeed a deficiency after a certain point, say, sixth grade or so. But to mark down a small child for being ‘immature?’ If a child is not allowed to be immature when he’s seven years old, just when IS he allowed to be immature? Aren’t all small children immature? Doesn’t that go with the territory? Why do we expect small children to behave maturely, yet smile when grown men and women behave like small children? Why is one cute and endearing, and the other annoying? And which did you find annoying, may I ask?

BEING one’s age is something we should all strive to do. ACTING it won’t fool anybody.

And with the BEING comes the responsibility. Proper behavior should not be limited to certain ages; after only a few years, children know what’s proper and what’s not, unless they’ve been living in a vacuum, or unless they’ve been allowed to run the household. And none of us know anyone who lets THAT happen, right?

So. As parents and citizens of the universe, we owe it to our children and to each other and to ourselves to lighten up on some things AND tighten the screws on others, both at once, so our children will truly grow up, not just get bigger with the same poor impulse control and with the feeling that the galaxy revolves around them. And how do we do this? With whatever it takes, my friends. Some children evolve naturally into delightful mature adults, and others must be wrestled to the ground with every new concept.

Do not allow your child to walk out your door and become the neighborhood monster, the school bully, the local knock-up artist, and an incorrigible bum. At least, not without some serious battles and opposition on your part. (some things we just can’t control, not even with the best parental intentions, dedication, and arsenal known to mankind, sigh.) And if teachers, neighbors, friends, and total strangers try to tell you that your child’s behavior is in need of serious control, believe them. Don’t make excuses, because there ARE no excuses. Seek help and seek it till you get it. No matter what the problem might be, a person with no self control is a danger to the other people in this world, and that person must be stopped and forced to change, and if change is not possible, then that person must be corralled, lest innocent others be hurt if they get in the way of his baby tantrums ‘anger management problems’ and childish selfishness ‘poor impulse control problems.’ I’m sorry as I can be, but the safety and well-being of the majority should count for something, too.

So. Let your children BE their age. And make bloody sure they know what’s expected of them at that age, and give them time and opportunity to DO what’s expected of them, and make the expectations bigger and more complicated as their age increases. Make sure the consequences for NOT BEING their age are severe and memorable. Very memorable. Allowing a child to remain a child forever, with no responsibilities and with excuses for tantrums and selfishness and laziness and with no manners and no understanding of public behavior, is as much ‘abuse’ as is beating him with a stick. Maybe worse, because others will suffer because of this parental laziness as well.

As a teacher, I called CPS more times than I could ever count. But not as many times as I WISH I could have. Whiny spoiled lazy hormonal monsters with helpless babyish doting excuse-making parents are a bane to the existence of us all.

BEING one’s age often means behaving as a child behaves. BEING one’s age also means behaving as polite society requires all persons in public to behave. There are times and places for childish shouts and spontaneous delight, and there are times and places for silence and respect. People of all ages need to know which is which.

I feel ranty today.

And no, I am not referring to special needs people.

<——Not good, no.