Freaks and Geeks

There are two things running througn my head this morning:

1. I can't remember #1, right now (we'll get back to it)(maybe), and
2. My love/ hate relationship with technology is swinging to the hate.

Let me explain.

In younger days, when I was in the thick of the scientific community, I was just like every other lab nerd - I oohed and ahhed over every new gizmo and doodad that cropped up. (and if it came with a free lunch and demo from the sales rep - so much the better. We'll take two).

But even then I knew.

I understood that with every amazing feature in the 'plus' column on the spec sheet, there would be a down side. A side not really talked about, a side that could potentially be used for dire purposes rather than the beneficial.

Because, technology - by and large - is a double-edged sword.

I think that, lately, the thing that is messing everyone up (OK, messing ME up, specifically) is the Internet.

True, it can be a glorious thing. It can make connections possible where they could never have possibly existed before. Case in point - the extraordinary group of women I met through our interconnected sites, and ultimately met up with in real life at last summer's Virginia BlogFest.
And all the other readers I've blended (blog +friend = blend) with since I started. Like Babs. And Cormac. Vegetable Assassin. And the 'Initials': BA, FF, NATUI. Even newer ones, like Ti . It has been nothing but pleasure getting to know them.

If luck is the intersection when timing and opportunity meet, then I would have to say that all these blogospheric collisions were very opportunistic, indeed.

But then there's the downside.

My case in point here? MySpace. Ack.

I joined this group for one purpose - to send a note of appreciation directly to someone's e-mail. That's it. (Of course, it would have been lovely if it was acknowledged, but really - who am I kidding? It should be enough that it was jettisoned out into the ether for its original intention)(Note the 'should be' here; I am completely irked by bad manners)(And you, bad-mannered one? You know who you are).

Needless to say, I should have got in, got it done, and got out.

But I didn't. I stayed. Lazy? Probably. Delusional? Absolutely.

What I ended up with is a slew of creepy oddballs, sending me declarations of love and passion and claiming that I was their soul mate, charting our future together like some possessed tarot card reader.

It didn't really matter that I had said, in as many ways possible, that I was married. I was HAPPILY married. I had been HAPPILY MARRIED for a LONG TIME. At one point, I was thinking of changing my name to I AM F*CKING MARRIED. After a short reflection on that, I realized that the only thing that would be noticed and flagged was the F*CKING, and I would end up with more men looking for a woman who bold enough to claim herself an adultress. Gah.

People are idiots.

I spent more time than I should have being polite. The first few 'friends' were the lucky ones. I answered back that I was in no way interested in pursuing ANYTHING, and wished them well on their pursuit of happiness.

The next batch got a message that crapped all over them for not reading anything, but merely looking at a picture and believing that destiny had waved its magic wand.

I even went so far as to change my profile picture to this:

Things did start to slow down - but not by much. I guess there are a lot of lonely men out there, looking for love with horse-faced dowagers. Maybe it' the challenge of getting through all those layers. I don't know.

They were ridiculous.

The whole exercise was ridiculous.

And oh, yeah - now I remember my Item 1 from the top of the post:

I'm ridiculous.

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Tune in next Monday for the beginning of a Baroness mini-series: My City Mondays. It will be a little glimpse into the who, what, where and possible why (but more likely why not?) of the 2010 Winter Olympics.

That happen to be - oh yeah - in my city.

Mystery Monday

Proud Parenting fact: Duke #1 taught himself to read when he was about 3 years old. His vocabulary was stunning.

However.

When it came to art projects, my darling little Duke #1 was, um, a ponderist.

A minimalist.

Oh, alright already. He was a bona fide perfectionist.

I do not know where this comes from, said the Baroness, averting her eyes from the incredulous stares and gaping pie-holes of those who know her well...

Needless to say, every time I went to pick him up from preschool, regardless of what fantastic creation his teachers had inspired, I knew right away - as I assessed the drying paintings in the hallway - which one was his.

That would be the piece of construction paper/kraft paper/fingerpainting paper that was completely blank, save for his name in the lower right hand corner.

That his teacher had written.

He was fine with this, and did not seem to be bothered by the reality that while his classmates were getting their Dali-esque grooves on, he stood solemnly in front of his easel. And produced nothing. Not a brushstroke. God only knows what was cooking in that cranium of his. I began mentally reviewing his infancy, to think as to whether or not he had incurred any blows to the creative area of his brain.

All this seemed to change as he entered Kindergarten. He had an amazing teacher who knew how to crack the code, and get him to take the baby steps of putting pen to paper.

Soon, he was unstoppable. He would rush downstairs in the mornings before school, still in his pajamas, and scream like a tortured artist: "I need paper!! I need a pencil!! NOW!!!!".

I was more than happy to oblige. I heaved a huge sigh of relief that the synaptic connection between his amazing brain and the page had finally begun.

I recall these long-ago moments when I find that there are times when my mind is racing at such an alarming rate, I have to quell the urge to scream: "I need paper!! I need a pen!! NOW!!!". (I also add "AND COFFEE!!! LOTS AND LOTS OF COFFEE!!!!")

Which is why I always keep a notebook and pen with me. This mindful act stops me from writing on napkins and newspaper borders and old grocery lists in lip liner (which I have resorted to, on occasion)(sad, really).

The "Mystery" part of this post comes from a page in one of my books. I've read it and re-read it about a hundred times, and for the life of me, I cannot even begin to unravel what I was driving at when I scribbled this crap down. I would like to point out here that I was neither:
a) sleepwriting.
b) drunk,
c) under the influence of cough medicine, mushrooms or legally obtained glaucoma medication (I don't even have glaucoma), nor
d) huffing keyboard cleaning spray.

So, I will leave this with you, and let you take off your cool sunglasses, smooth your tie out, and go all Caruso on my ass. Tell me, please, what the hell I was thinking? It's mess.

Working Title: Look in Your Own Backyard

The elusive hunt for fulfilment/happiness/health/prosperity begins 2 feet ahead of you. No, not the big screen tv. Nor the liquor cabinet or bread box. It's true - really - you just have to see it. Sometimes you have to work insanely hard to move 2 feet forward. It may require taking 2 steps backwards, in order to get a view of the larger picture, to behold the extraordinary in a different light. To repair the damage.

We're a lazy lot by nature, so is it a surprise that this minimal effort seems so unappealing?

Something obviously got my knickers in such a knot that I had to jot these passages down in a hurry, and then have such a brain fart (more like olestra-induced brain shart) that I can't even remember where I was going with this.

Thoughts? Ideas?

Help!