Emoticons

Please, for the love of conversation, can we stop with the emoticons already?!

I was fine when emoticons were simple smiley or frowny faces. I'm even okay with the wink. I think that's where we need to draw the line.

I'm not half witted. I do understand and value emoticons. I'm a sarcastic person, sometimes a little wink is needed to keep the reader in the loop of my intentions. And nothing follows the words No offense better than a smiley face. Such as, "You're not a very manly man. No offense :)"

I think the world would continue nicely if we smiled, frowned, or winked. Your text is no better because you emphatically smiled. You don't need to furrow your brow via characters. And what's with sticking your tongue out? When in real life converstation would it be acceptable to stick your tongue out at me? It's not. Ever. Not when you're 3 (Alice's latest) and not when you're 33.

Were you aware that someone has discovered a string of letters and punctuation that creates a cat face? Seriously. I can't, for the life of me, think of a text conversation where you couldn't possibly convey your message without a cat face. Maybe I'm slow and the jokes really on me. Somehow I doubt it.

Tuesday, April 3

Hatta: 8-|

Me: What's that supposed to be?

Hatta: It was the "eye-roll" emoticon.

See this is the problem with emoticons, trying to decipher the Morse code like symbols detracts from the original message.

My final plea to end the emoticon insanity is brought to you by, yet again, another text exchange from my dear husband. He is hopelessly in favor of emoticons it seems. We were...what do the cool kids call it? Oh right, sexting.

Hatta: I'd be happy to oblige.

Me: Sounds enjoyable.

Hatta: :-p

Hatta: That's me.

Hatta: This is u #:-s

Me: I think your attempt at emoticons caused me to rethink.

Hatta: Ugh

I think I've made my point. Nothing enjoyable happened, thanks to good ole emoticons.

Laces Out...I Mean, Handle to the Right

I'm a good wife...mostly.

I don't greet my husband at the front door in heels and my sluttiest hottest little dress, his favorite cocktail in hand. Dinner's never on the table when he gets home. Generally, he's greeted by a frazzled woman who vaguely resembles the person he fell in love with all those years ago.

The house is never immaculate. Ever. We have 2 cats, a dog, and preschooler. I do my best to keep the toys and the hair under control. Clean towels are always available. And we never run out of tooth paste.

What really matters, my shining moment, happens first thing in the morning. I make coffee, French press, everyday. I'm not going to sell you some story that I make coffee everyday for Hatta because I'm such a remarkable wife. It's not the case. I make it out of my own selfish necessity. I'm hopelessly addicted to coffee.

I drink my coffee as soon as its pressed. Then, I pour my husband's half into a travel mug. Every morning I consciously place the lid on his mug, handle to the right. And this, my friend, is why I'm a kick ass wife. For some peculiar reason, it bugs my husband when the lid is placed so the handle is on the left side of the mug. I don't get it. To me it doesn't matter, I'm not so particular. It matters to him. It's such a tiny thing, but I know it makes a difference. So I do it. I send him off to work happy. In my head I may be thinking a wide assortment of negative things regarding his peculiarity, but all that matters is that the lid to the mug goes on right.

When you hear someone say, "it was the little things," this is the exact moment they're talking about. What are the little things you do for others that show you care?

Everyone Heals Differently

I've been playing this game for awhile, maybe you've heard of it? It's called "How Long Can I Avoid Having My Wisdom Teeth Removed?" It's similar to another game I like called "How Long Can I Avoid a Tetanus Shot?" I rock at that game. I'm the reigning champion. I think the last time I was forced to get a tetanus shot was middle school. College was a close call with it being mandatory for admittance and all. I dodged it as long as I could. Just as I was about to be forced to forfeit, luck turned up on my side by way of a vaccination shortage.

You might ask why one would choose to play these games. Let me enlighten thee. It's rather simple. Either a.) You're afraid of needles, b.) You're afraid of hospitals and doctors offices, c.) You're afraid of pain or d.) All of the above. I can attest, avoidance is always easier.

Anyway, back to the original game I've been playing for quite some time. It seems, sadly, my time playing was all for nothing. I must graciously bow out, admit defeat. All four of my wisdom teeth will be forcefully sliced and ripped from my mouth a week from Thursday. Nevermind the months I patiently suffered while my wisdom teeth tore every filament of my gums just so they could break the surface and join the rest of my teeth. Forget about the extra minutes I was forced to spend every week brushing and flossing four extra teeth. All for naught, I tell you. All for naught.

Today, I found myself in the oral surgeons office, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, filling out pages 1,2,3, and 7 where I'm sure I agreed not to sue them if they cause me pain and suffering by accidentally removing the wrong teeth. I was trying to complete the paperwork with my legs shaking the clipboard (see letters a, b, c, and d from above,) when up to the counter walks this small, dark haired college girl. I guess she was about 19. I listen to her conversation with the office assistant and instantly, I'm sucked in like a moth to a flame. I could have given up rights to my second child in the paperwork for all I know.

She's trying to make an appointment to have her wisdom teeth out.

"I have an 8, a 9:45, and a 10:30."

"Don't you have anything later, I have class in the morning."

"No, I'm sorry we only do them in the mornings. Blah blah blah dehydration. Blah blah blah. And you know you have to have somebody here to drive you home after surgery," the assistant tells her with a tone in her voice.

"Oh, okay. I guess my mom could bring me and my friend could pick me up."

"No, no that's not going to work. Someone has to be here in the office the entire time of the surgery and then drive you home." This time she's a touch rude with the meek girl.

"Um, okay. I'll be able to go back to school after the surgery cause I have class, right?"

"No, no. You're going to have to stay home the rest of the day,"

"But the next day, I'll be able to go to class the next morning, though."

"It all depends, everyone heals differently," she says. And I have to applaud her for not laughing aloud in the poor, foolish girls face.

Has this dewey-eyed girl never known anyone who's had their wisdom teeth removed? I nursed a boyfriend during college through his recovery, I still shudder at the blood and the pain. I was friends with my husband when he had his removed. I watched him eat mashed potatoes and jell-o for days. This little girl has clearly not been playing the game. She's one of those that never even knew the game existed. I feel for her. On Wednesday, at 8:00am, she will experience what my mother referred to as worse than childbirth. She delivered three babies, naturally, without drugs. Wisdom teeth extraction worse than that. And this girl hasn't got a clue. Had she, she would've been playing the game right alongside me.

Happy Birthday, Dear Mom

Today is my mom's birthday. This is the first year since 2006, when my mother died, that I have honestly attempted to celebrate this day.

The first three years after her death, I pretended April 20th didn't exist. It seemed easier that way. If I ignored it, I could also ignore the pain I felt. After all, how can the day that is all about her exist if she's not even here?

The next few years, I spent April 20th in a state of depression and silent anger. Angry that I couldn't celebrate my mom's birthday like other 30 year olds and send a card or maybe flowers, go out to dinner together, at least a call to sing her happy birthday. I was angry at my husband for not recognizing the state I was in, for not seeing how this day could be a bad day in my eyes. It was a bad day. Right there with June 9th, the day she died.

This year, I suppose I'm making progress. I can say today is my mom's birthday, and even though my eyes well with tears there may be a hint of a smile on my lips as I say it. Because today should not be a sad day. It should not. Today should be the day to celebrate all the amazingly wonderful things that made my mom brilliantly unique.

I have never known anyone quite as optimistic as my mom. She was happy. One day, her and I were outside in the garden at Hospice. My mother was a florist and an avid gardener. We were leisurely walking around the path and my mom was telling me the name of this flower and that one. It was a beautiful spring day. The gardener was there working and my mom wanted to talk to her. She was asking her about multiple aspects of the job, how many days a week was she there, did they have volunteers helping, etc. Without even hesitating, my mother tells the lady, "when I'm well again, I would like to volunteer here gardening." The eternal optimist. We knew she was not going to be well again. But her? She wouldn't allow herself to believe it. I don't even know if deep down inside, in that place where your brain holds you accountable for reality, she accepted it. That's who she was. Never ending sunshine.

So...to my mother, who I miss more than imaginable, I sing this to you in my perk, perk, perkiest voice.

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday to you!

Happy birthday, dear Mom!

Happy birthday to you!