The Five Types of Facebookers

I spend a lot of time on Facebook. Like, a lot. I imagine my kids' first sentences will be something like, "Are you going to update your status soon, Empress of the Universe?" Also I will be teaching my kids to address me as Empress of the Universe. And since I not only spend a lot of time on Facebook but also have a degree in public relations, which means I am basically a Facebook expert, I have noticed a trend. The majority of Facebookers I see fall into at least one category, sometimes two. Sometimes three. I fear those people the most. And, lucky you, I have decided to share these categories for your benefit and enjoyment. Which one are you? Are you more than one? Tell me all.

The Liker:

This person may or may not comment, but as soon as your status goes up, you can count on them to click the "like" button to show their approval of your latest update. This person moves like a silent ninja, liking things all over the place, even if what they like makes no sense. Sometimes this person likes other peoples' comments - people they don't even know. The most terrifying power this person wields is the notifications. Oh, the notifications. There is nothing like opening up Facebook, clicking on your notifications, and seeing the same profile picture eighteen times in a row because The Liker has struck once again to express their approval for everything you have written in the last three hours. Well played, Liker. Well played.

The InstaCommenter:

I don't know how this person moves so quickly, but within five seconds of you pressing "post," this person has already commented on your status/picture/link. This truly baffles me. I am not judging how much time The InstaCommenter spends on Facebook, because people in social media houses shouldn't throw virtual stones. But how does this person react so fast? HOW? What's even more impressive/confusing is that this person, much like The Liker, moves swiftly and silently. They may not have had any activity on Facebook for six hours. But the moment you respond to their comment, there they are, ready with an InstaFollowUp. I can only imagine they have some kind of pager attached to their wrist at all times that alerts them to the exciting news that they can once again comment on a Facebook status. Or maybe they're psychic.


The Drama Llama:

My goodness, this person has a rough life. Or so they would lead you to believe. I am not the Facebook police. You can write what you want on your Facebook page. But there are some days where I see a Drama Llama and have to resist the urge to find a way to cut off their Internet access. You will recognize the Drama Llama because while their crisis will seem urgent and/or terrible, further inspection will show you that what they are experiencing is not, in fact, that big of a freakin' deal. The Drama Llama is crafty, and toys with your emotions using lots... of.... ellipses... to build up... ... ... suspense... before doing... a... big reveal IN ALL CAPITAL LETTERS. An experienced Drama Llama could make buying new shampoo a nail-biter of an event. It's hard to tell whether the Drama Llama is really this upset about a non-issue, or if they just really like typing sad faces. This is one of the mysteries of life that may never fully be solved.

The Nostalgic Stalker:

Have you ever gotten a notification that someone has liked or commented on a post, clicked to see the post, and been really confused for about thirty seconds before realizing said post is from 2009 and you barely remember writing it? That confusion is brought to you courtesy of the Nostalgic Stalker. Part of the blame has to lie with the silly Facebook newsfeed that shows you posts from two days ago and pretends they are new. But most of the blame lies with the Nostalgic Stalker as they scroll through your profile and acknowledge every post you have made in the last six months. Unlike The Liker and InstaCommenter, subtlety is not this person's strength. Oftentimes they refuse to acknowledge that any other events have passed since you posted whatever they are commenting on, resulting in gems like, "Hope your wedding is full of blessings!" three years after you get married. Have they not been on Facebook for several months? Do they think you might like to be reminded of the day you graduated college? It's hard to say why the Nostalgic Stalker does what they do. But one thing is certain - they will do it to you.

The Killjoy:

Oh, man. This person. This person bums me out just to write about, so you can imagine what running into one of them on Facebook is like. The Killjoy's main goal is to suck the life and fun out of every hilarious or uplifting thing you post. Writing out your favorite Bible verse and posting it as your status? The Killjoy will comment with a fun fact on how that verse is actually severely mistranslated and really does not mean anything close to what you thought. Want to post some lyrics of your favorite inspirational song? The Killjoy will link an article that explains the artist is now on meth and hates kittens. And heaven forbid you post something a little tongue-in-cheek as your status. The Killjoy does not do sarcasm. Any statuses about how you want to sell your baby online will result in lectures on how children are a precious gift, why DFACS does not want you to sell your children, and articles from parenting magazines about loving the moment. Don't be that person. No one likes that person. At all.

And there you go - the Five Types of Facebookers. They are real. They are out there. I have been all of these at one point or another, and - admit it - so have you. It's okay. We're here for you. But seriously, don't link parenting articles to my status. I will not have that nonsense. I will. not. have it.

Everything I never knew about babies

Daniel has a general knowledge of just about everything. The Bible, history, mechanics, television - he knows a lot.

I, on the other hand, live my life in a land where unicorns and Pop Tarts reign supreme. Sure, I don't know who my Senator is (I totally do), but I can find you pictures of six cute cats in thirty seconds or less.

So it didn't surprise me to find out that I didn't know a ton about babies, either. When my nephew was born, I discovered all sorts of things. I would share them with you, but I don't want to be on DFACS' radar before my baby is even born. Let's just say I didn't know much about babies. Daniel knows a lot about them, so our kid still has a good chance of eating every day and going to school and whatever else children do.

I am still learning about babies. I have, however, learned some interesting things about pregnancy. These revelations aren't "scientific" or "medical" or "useful" but if I had realized just how true they were, I would have prepared myself more for them. You want to know what they are, don't you. Come onnnn. Say yes. Say it. Say it say it say it say it say it.

Okay, I'm just going to pretend you said it. Here we go!

1) Pregnancy makes you stupid.  You may not know this, but I totally have a super power: I can remember anything. Birthdays? Check. Anniversaries? Done. Random facts about guns and the history of guns? I'm on FIRE.

But not anymore. Now I'm stupid. Stupid is a harsh word. But I cannot think of another way to describe my brain when I am at the post office, trying my hardest to remember my address and telling the nice USPS lady that I could just drive down the street and look at my mailbox really quick. My mom gave me a notebook to write things down so I would remember them. I have no idea where it is. Sorry, Mom. I teach children's church at my church and called at least 3 kids by the wrong name last week. They kind of just went with it. They also wear name tags, by the way.

So be ye warned, potentially pregnant ladies. It is serious business. Get a notebook. And Velcro it to your shirt.

2) Lettuce is the enemy. McDonald's is my friend. I can no longer eat lettuce. Not sure why lettuce specifically has given me that lovely feeling that I am about to barf at any moment. But it does. I avoided Taco Bell for a while because of all the lettuce. I avoided Taco Bell. Then Daniel pointed out that I should just get my taco without lettuce. I told you he was smart.

McDonald's, on the other hand, is my new best friend. I do not go to McDonald's. Ever. Before these last few months I had gone to McDonald's maybe 5 times in the last ten years. I don't like it. But now I love it. I kind of want to marry it. Except I'm already married. But I think Daniel would let me bring McDonald's into our marriage. He likes it, too. We could all be so happy together.

Ahem. Anyway. McDonald's is awesome.

3) Everyone and their mother has a medical degree. Apparently. I had heard that people were incredibly rude and nosy to pregnant women. Not on purpose, of course (I hope), but it was still an issue. And maybe I didn't believe it was that bad. I'm here to tell you - it is that bad.

Random strangers have told me which veggies to eat, to lose weight, to make sure I take a swimming class so my baby will know how to swim. Yeah. That last one really confused me, too. The Quizno's lady keeps telling me horror stories about parents dropping babies or forgetting to feed them. And once a child at Babies R Us asked if I was pregnant. I mean, yes, I am. But we all know you don't ask. Never too early to learn, right, Johnny? Oh, stop crying; I didn't pinch you that hard.

Believe it or not, strangers are the easiest ones to deal with. I can get all Southern on them and say something polite that on the surface makes me sound so gracious but that really means they have .2 seconds to back. the heck. up. before I go crazy ninja on them. It's the people that I see on a regular basis that really drive me nuts. I have had people email me about how much I am hurting my baby by drinking Diet Coke. One person told me that my highlights have likely damaged my baby forever.

If you are one of those people... sorry. It's better you know this now. We're still friends. It's cool. But how about we all abide by this one rule, m'kay? If you don't have some kind of medical training or degree, I don't want to hear it. 

**There is obviously the exception of other pregnant women and/or mothers that I am friends with. Please give me all of your advice and I will make you a cake. HELP ME.**

The rest of you, go use that eager, helping spirit to build a house for the poor or donate some toys for Christmas. Learn to weave baskets, take up knitting, apply to clown school and buy a red nose - just no. more. advice. My own mother-in-law is actually a real live nurse and I have yet to hear from her about all the terrible things I am doing during my pregnancy. So rest assured that I have medical staff on hand who are measuring my Diet Coke intake by the ounce.

This post seems mean now. Maybe I shouldn't post it. Eh, who I am kidding. But here - have six cute kittens to make you happy again.

The Awkward Bathroom Encounter

Yesterday, I was at church for a meeting. I was participating and laughing - oh, the laughing - when suddenly I realized I had to... you know. 

I had no choice. It was time for The Awkward Bathroom Encounter.

Women, you have all endured this. You find the bathroom and realize with some horror that it is for one person at a time only. And the door is shut. And as hard as you try to see if the light is on under the door or listen for any sounds while also keeping an eye on the hallway because if your pastor sees you crouching by a bathroom door he will report you and then you won't be able to go back to your meeting, you just can't tell for sure. So what can you do but knock?

But this isn't just any knock. This is the most stressful knock in the history of time. What if someone is already in there?

For me, that's the worst feeling. I don't want anyone to think I am rushing them, like WHY HAVE YOU BEEN IN THE BATHROOM FOR THREE MINUTES DO YOU HAVE A MEDICAL EMERGENCY OR WHAT. I am merely gathering information - if someone is in this bathroom, I will move on to the next one. All women learn this around the same time they master the art of the ninja kick in order to flush the toilet. And yet I think all women also fear hearing a voice from the other side of the door, saying the dreaded words we hate: "Someone's in here right now."

ABORT, ABORT. MISSION FAILURE.

It's not easy being a girl. All men have to do is walk into the restroom and give a manly nod because no man's bathroom is for only one person at a time, and if it is it will be available in .23 seconds since that is all the time they need. Men. 

In case you are not as familiar with this process, I have broken it down for you, step by step, in the list below. Enjoy:

The Plucky Procrastinator's Guide to The Awkward Bathroom Encounter:

1) Realize you have to make a sacrifice to the porcelain throne soon. Ignore it because you don't have to go that bad and you can wait.

2) 30 seconds later, realize you cannot wait one more millisecond or this will be first grade in Mrs. Bishop's class all over again.

3) Locate nearest bathroom. If in school, you're in luck! Most of those are multiple stalls. If you're at church or K-Mart, prepare yourself. 

4) Investigate thoroughly. Is the door shut because someone is on the other side or because the door is heavy and always swings shut?

5) It's because someone is on the other side. Duh. 

6) Stand straight, take a deep breath, and knock a solid three times. No more, no less. 

7) If no one answers, hooray! Open the door slowly, like you might if you were diffusing a door bomb while on roller skates. 

8) If "someone's in here," proceed to verbally vomit all over them with your apologies and explanations. 

9) Run away to the next bathroom, praying the first person didn't recognize your voice, doesn't have a child in your class, and is not leaving the bathroom any time soon.

10) Blog about it. 

Awkward Encounter-ers, form a line to the left. 

Life Lessons from Disney

I love Disney movies. I really do. I love them so much I have a whole playlist on my iPod that is dedicated to Disney and BFF Jen and I jam out to it on every road trip we take.  

But the last time I listened to my Disney playlist, I started thinking of how all of these Disney characters are, in theory, role models for children. Follow your dreams. Believe in yourself. Talk to animals and see if they talk back. And after some thought I realized that most of these Disney characters are complete morons. 

Just look at Pocahontas, for instance. She wants more in her life instead of the hum-drum marriage to Kocuom. Fair enough. And to show us just how excited she is, she sings to us about going around the river bend. Beautiful. Be free, Pocahontas. 

Then she literally gets to a river bend where she has to make a choice: Go the smooth route (aka, marry the dull guy) or fly like a bird in the wind. Except this is no longer a metaphor - she is literally deciding between taking the smooth route around the river or the terrifying, rock-filled, Native American-killing death route. Go the smooth route, you idiot. Is this really a consideration for you? You're so caught up in your desire for a super-cool life that you want to brave the rapids in your little cardboard canoe? Negative. You make bad choices. 

Totally worth the thrill. 

So let's move on to one of my favorite characters: Mulan. Oh, Mulan, you ignorant fool.  You are clearly intelligent. You are clearly clever. So why, WHY did you think that cross-dressing was your best option? Let's reason this out for a moment: You become a man. This is the first warning sign. It was way too easy for you to make that transition. To each his or her own. But seriously, girl, go talk to your school counselor. 

ANYway, you become a man, and then you join the army. I'm sorry; how is this supposed to work out? Do you think that cutting your hair and not showering also gives you the ability to fight a battle? Pumpkin, you're going to get killed. And then your dad is going to have to fight anyway. So maybe next time work on a new plan that involves accepting that life can be hard and talking dragons rarely have pure motives. 

And, yes, I know she did succeed. But only barely. And she had a lot of help. A lot. 

I rest my case. 

And last, but not least, Belle. Girl, you have got to stop going into strangers' houses. Who taught you that that was a good a idea? I know your mama didn't. It must be that fool of a father you have because he did the exact. same. thing. Seriously, don't go into strangers' houses. Definitely don't go into strangers' castles. And, for the love of Nancy, don't go into strangers' castles when it's dark and stormy outside.

And don't go into the West Wing, either! You clearly have some boundary issues. Yes, you're a prisoner due to a selfless sacrifice you made for your father. Cry me a river, build me a bridge, and get over it. IN YOUR OWN SPACE. Just because you get rewarded for your shenanigans by getting to marry a sexy prince does not make it okay. 

Seriously, why would you want to go here anyway? You also have some thrill issues that concern me. 


Crazy broads, all of them. 

The One-Upper

Have you ever been in a conversation where you say something so innocent, so non-confrontational that you are thinking of high-fiving yourself for your awesome conversation skills, only to be brought down moments later by the one person who just had to "go there"? 

I have.

And so have you.

We have all come into contact with this person. We have all rolled our eyes, held our tongues, and utilized stress balls as a direct result of this person.

So who is this person?

It's the One-Upper. 

Sound familiar? Sure it does. This is the person who, upon hearing that you think it's hot outside, immediately says, "You think THIS is hot?? I used to live inside a volcano. You don't know hot until you've lived inside a volcano."

Oh. Em. Gee. That makes me want to pull my hair out.

Or how about this one: Do you ever complain about something to a friend, only to have him or her say, "That's terrible! That's almost as bad as the time I was attacked by a rabid mutant squirrel and lost all of my limbs." Dude. I am just looking for a little support, here. Sorry about your limbs, though.

Here's the thing: When I say it's hot outside, or rainy, or silly, or rainbow-y, I am not throwing down the one-up gauntlet. Really. It is not a challenge. It is not a judgment. It is not a hat. I like hats. I wish it was a hat. It isn't me accusing you of being a moron because you clearly don't understand your surroundings.

I am just making a freaking observation. 

Now, there are times when the One-Upper's attitude can be useful. For instance, if a smarmy butt-face that you know says something like, "I beat all the levels of Mario Kart in two hours" and then smirks at you, it's perfectly acceptable to say, "Oh, really? Took you that long? I did it in ONE HOUR" and then walk away in slo-mo to the rock song of your choosing.

But in general, regular, everyday conversation, no. Just no. And this includes all your basic social media, texting, smoke signals, etc. It's hard to resist, I know. When you see someone on Facebook complain about how hard math class is when you've just had a baby, or run a marathon with one leg, or fought off a manic zebra with only your wits and your trusty jackknife on you while simultaneously reciting the pledge to the flag because you are that dedicated to being an American AND you save a Girl Scout Troop from certain zebra death, it is hard not to write something, anything, to talk about your day and subsequent awesomeness.

That's why you have your own Facebook/MySpace/Xanga/Word Document. Highlight your glories there. Don't go deflate some college kid who has no idea what life is really about.

You don't want to be the One-Upper, anyway. In person it's annoying, but over texting or Facebook you just sound sad. And then people shake their heads and say things like, "Poor Susie. Still obsessed with her volcano. We'll pray for her. Bless her heart."

Listen to Kristen. She knows more than you things.

Curiouser and curiouser

"Honey?" my loving husband called to me from the kitchen the other day. "Did you put a box of Band-Aids in the fridge?"

I thought about it for a minute. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Because I found a box of Band-Aids in the fridge," he answered as he shut the fridge door.

"Oh."

And that was that. A few hours later I opened the fridge for some water Diet Coke and saw the box of Band-Aids still sitting on the shelf. I thought about moving them, but my Diet Coke was waiting. So I shut the door and told myself I would get them later.

They're still in there. That conversation happened about 5 days ago. Why mess with a good thing?

"We're getting cold in here."

Two girls and a Native American walk into a cabin...

I have written before about the many virtues of Berry College.  Tonight, as BFF Jen and I were making plans for yet another Mountain Day adventure, a story popped into my head that I realized I had been remiss in sharing with all eight of my fans. So enjoy:

A few years ago, BFF Jen and I decided to go visit Berry - but not for Mountain Day. No, this time we went off the cuff, if you will - and I think you will - and decided to visit in March. Besides going on a non-Mountain Day day, it was also SNOWING as we left for our beloved alma mater. This should have been a sign that our visit was going to be a little nontraditional. But we ignored the warnings.

Say it with me: Dun. Dun. Dunnnnnnnnnn. 

When we arrived at Berry, we found the cabin we were going to stay in. Liz, the super-de-duper check-in gal, said we were the only ones staying in the cabin, even though it could easily hold seven or eight people. We dropped off our stuff in our room and then left for the day, catching up with friends and praying to Martha at her grave. 

When we returned that night, we saw a truck parked outside of the cabin. The porch light was on as well. Then BFF Jen and I had what is possibly the dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: Do you think someone is in there?

Me: I don't know. We could ask the check-in gal.

Her: The check-in office is closed. 

Me: Oh.

Her: So should we go in?

Me: Sure. 

And off we went, wandering into a pitch-black cabin on the most remote part of campus with the distinct possibility of running into a serial killer occupying our cabin. Just a day in the life for us. 

BFF Jen had a plan, though. And if Mrs. BFF Jen's Mom is reading this, I am really, really sorry. Jen decided she would hold open the door while I called out in the hallway to see if someone answered. If a serial killer or even just a regular killer answered, we wouldn't have to waste time opening the door to get out. Brilliant. 

After a couple of "HELLOOOOOOS?" we heard a scraping sound - coming from the room next to ours. Before we could put our award-winning plan into motion, there appeared before us a man that I can only describe as Cloud Dancing from Dr. Quinn meets Chief Powhatan from Pocahontas. 

"'Sup."

He had long, flowing silver hair down to his waist, was half-naked, and looked completely surprised to see us.

"Hello, there," the man said. "Are you staying here, too?" 

I think we managed to nod.

"Okay, great. Well, goodnight." And with that, he turned around, went back up the stairs, and after a few seconds we heard his door shut. Alrighty, then.

Then BFF Jen and I had possibly the second dumbest conversation known to man:

Her: What should we do?

Me: ...ask the check-in gal?

Her: THE OFFICE IS CLOSED, KRISTEN. 

Me: Right, got it. 

Her: So, should we stay here?

Me: Sure.

Ah, but this time we had an even better plan: teamwork. BFF Jen isn't my BFF for nothing - between the two of us there is an understanding that when one of us makes a dumb decision, the other one stands by her come hell or high water. Or strange Native American men. So we put our new and improved plan into place. 

First, we each stood guard while the other one brushed her teeth and used the only restroom, located in the hallway. To get the visual, you have to picture BFF Jen - she is by far the tiniest fully-grown human being I have ever known. And then you have me, the very picture of strength and speed. Together, we made the worst superhero team the world would ever see. But we are nothing if not dedicated and eachstood outside the bathroom door with my tiny can of hot pink (breast cancer awareness, baby!) mace, ready to spray and then run at the slightest provocation.

Eventually we made it into our room. Now that we were inside, how did we keep the man out? He probably had a chainsaw and/or a sword that could cut through the lock. But that didn't matter, because the door didn't lock. Are. You. Kidding me. 

This might be a problem for some people, but not for us - we just adapted to the situation. BFF Jen and I proceeded to stack every single piece of furniture in that room against the door. Nightstands, chairs, wobbly table-thing that had no clear purpose; you name it, we stacked it. 

But we didn't stop there - we set our suitcases against the pile of 1980s furniture to ensure that, in the event the evil murderer made it through the furniture barrier, we would hear our suitcases fall to the floor and would wake up in time to escape. How we thought we could get past a grown man and a 4-foot stack of furniture, I don't know. Clearly event planning is not in either of our futures. 

And, just in case we had to resort to force, we carefully selected some weapons to keep by us on the only nightstand that was bolted to the wall: the pink mace, Jen's curling iron, and my hair straightener. I remember telling BFF Jen, "It heats up in just sixty seconds." Because a good plan is all about how quickly your weapons will heat up. 

Finally, after a long couple of hours listening for noises, we went to sleep. And lo and behold, the next morning we were completely alive! Victory! As we began to dismantle our barrier, I heard footsteps on the floor and froze. 

"Good morning!" the man called through the door. I wanted to open it to be polite, but the furniture was a lot harder to move without the adrenaline rush. "Sorry if I scared you!" he added.

"Oh... that's okay!" I shouted back. "Sorry... we got scared!"

"No problem... I work here," he continued, as if silently pleading me not to call the police and ruin his day. "I know the college president."

"Hey, cool. Me, too." That was really all I could think of at the time.

"Well... anyway, I'm going now. Enjoy your stay." And he was gone, probably glad to be rid of us. Who could blame him?

So, kids, here's the moral of the story: Don't be a moron. And don't go into dark places with strangers. But if you absolutely, positively have to, look for furniture and break out the hair accessories. Works every time.

The Lawn Mower

If you passed by my house yesterday between 8:30 and 9:30 pm, you might have seen some very strange things.

You might have seen a woman negotiating with her dog and pleading with him not to get out of the fence.

You might have seen her successfully distract the dog with a stick, not knowing that she still had 3 more cycles of this to go. Stupid fence.

You might have seen the woman drag the lawn mower out of the fence, carefully follow the instruction her father gave her, and pull on the cord with all her might.

You then would have seen her stomp her foot because IT ISN'T WORKING AND SHE WAS FOLLOWING ALL OF THE DIRECTIONS AND

Then you would have seen her remember the last step. Victory!

You might have noticed that she has no idea how to cut a pattern in the grass with the lawn mower and that she takes the approach of "God's will be done with the yard" as she begins to push the mower up and down.

Then you could have seen her get to the driveway, and decide if the mower could cross it without damaging the... mowery parts. She decided she needed to turn it off.

She was wrong.

You might have then seen her attempt to restart the mower over and over and over and over and over and over and over until she looked like Billy Blanks from Tae Bo, except with less muscles and way more sweat.

You then would have noticed her drag the lawn mower up to the house, negotiate with the dog to get back inside the fence, and change clothes because if she was going to make a fool of herself in front of a busy street, she was going to be comfortable.

You might have seen that her tank top was completely and utterly see-through. She, however, did not see this until she got back inside. You're welcome, people of Lawrenceville.

You would have wondered about her sanity when she kicked the lawn mower and sat in the grass.

It would have made a little more sense when you saw her husband come home and help her figure out the problem, and saw her glee at having her power over the lawn restored.

You then could have sat back for the next 3 million hours as the woman slowly but surely made her way around the yard, going in a pattern that only she could see. Kind of. It was dark.

You might have stopped to wonder why a grown woman was running with a lawn mower, alternately laughing and trying not to throw up. If you had just ASKED you would have known that she decided walking was too boring and running would be more fun. She was right, by the way.

And if you drove by this morning, you would see a shorter, albeit uneven, yard, mowed with the determination of one who has learned her lesson about asking her husband if he will let her mow the lawn just this once. 

She should have used this instead

TSA

I recently got promoted at work. I was a semi-grown up and now I am a REAL grown up. Neat, huh? I agree. Part of being a real grown up is that I will need to travel some for work. To ease me into this slowly, they sent me on the first trip with another real grown up, whom I shall call C-Dizzle.

C-Dizzle is a master at the travel game, so I just did what she did and followed her around. Literally, I followed her around the airport like a puppy. She kept trying to say things to me and I would try to catch up really fast to be next to her instead of behind her. ANYway, we got to the security check point and got separated. I tried to stick with her, I really did. But when the burly security man says "YOU GO THERE" and points to the opposite line of your travel buddy, you do not argue.

So I go to the other line and put my bag, shoes, kidneys, etc. on the belt. Then I am directed to the Temple of Doom. Yes - I got sent, for the very first time, to the body scanner.

This is the part of the blog where you should click here and press the blue button (make sure your sound is up) to understand the full horror I was experiencing.

I do not like the body scanners. Even after they fixed them so they can't see you in your underwear, I have had an unnatural fear of these for years. If Daniel and I fly somewhere, he volunteers for the body scanner so he won't have to talk me down from the proverbial ledge for the entire flight.

But I was very good and went through it. And I got stopped. Dang it all.

"What do you have in your back left pocket?" the very tall TSA lady asked me. I do have to say I was impressed with the accuracy. I wanted to tell her so but I felt like that wasn't the time. I might write a letter, though.

HOWEVER, I would have to include in my letter the rest of the incident...

"Oh, it's my license. I just had to show it for the first checkpoint and there was no time to put it in my bag," I said, cheerfully but not too cheerfully just in case this lady didn't care for pep. Then I took it out of my pocket and the lady jumped a little. Maybe I was supposed to let her do it?

She then told me she was going to have to pat me down. Erghhhhh, no. But she was already doing it, lightly brushing my left cheek with the back of her hand. My butt proved satisfactory (it always does) and I thought I was done. Oh, how naive I was. She made me raise my left hand above my head and she brushed her fingers down my arm and side. It tickled. I giggled. Apparently giggling is unacceptable to the TSA because she glared at me.

Then came the strangest part of all: She started poking her fingers through my ponytail. I know my hair is thick but is it really bad enough that I could hide a weapon in there? Because if so, she just gave me a great idea. She tugged on my ponytail and was finally satisfied that my CVS-brand ponytail holder was, in fact, docile.

She yelled "I NEED HANDS" in no particular direction and told me to go stand in front of another lady. This one at least smiled as she wiped my hands down with something. I realized she was checking for gun-powder residue and other explosive stuff. And this is where I truly started to panic.

See, my husband Daniel is a gunsmith. A gunsmith who likes to (safely) experiment with how to make things blow up. This means that any given day of the week I am putting away guns, chemicals of unknown origin, pointy objects covered in black stuff, and tubes of something science-y. And so my thought process went like this: Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Should I tell her before she even runs the test? No, no, that would look too suspicious. But what if it turns up something? What if I can't remember what Daniel was playing with the other day? Was it magnesium? Marbles? Mangos? Something. Something with explosives. And he had me practice shooting the pistol... would there still be GPR on my hands? Is that even a possibility? Do people still use gun powder? It seems kind of old-fashioned. Maybe it's just a phrase. Maybe they just call it that beca - 


"Uh, ma'am?"

I tuned back in to the TSA lady to see her staring at me.

"You can go."

Oh. Well, good.

Stupid body scanners.

A Documentary on Dana Scully, or, How to be Knocked Out in Three Easy Steps

Lately, Daniel has been on an X Files kick. So we've been watching all of the episodes. If you don't know what The X Files is, let me sum it up for you: Two FBI agents look for aliens after lots of strange things happen to or around them. It's weird.

However, the weirdness is nothing compared to the stupidity perpetuated by one specific character: Dana Scully, one of the FBI agents on the show. 

"I was supposed to look sexy but I got distracted."

It is incredibly hard to watch her on the show and remain silent. She is dumber than a sock and dresses like Hilary Clinton - that is, when she's conscious, which seems to be rare. What's that, you say? You want a list proving this? Okey dokey. 

1) The pantsuits. Oh, sweet cheese and crackers, the pantsuits. This woman wears pantsuits like it's... 1993. Okay. Fine. But still - who looks good in shoulder pads? WHO, I ask you? No one. Especially not in the ones that make you look like a football player. Maybe she's trying to go for a more masculine look so the other FBI agents will take her seriously. What she doesn't know is that the suits are only just masculine enough to make her look like a transvestite. 

Look at those things. They take up half the shot.

2) The complete and utter lack of belief in all things paranormal, in spite of the fact that THOSE ARE THE CASES SHE WORKS. ON PURPOSE. She is a medical doctor who became an FBI agent - the assumption we're supposed to make is that she's smart. Unfortunately, she is not smart. Quite the opposite, in fact. Because no matter how many times she sees an alien abduct a kid or an invisible elephant trample a dude or find a bunch of dead people with Alien-esque plants sticking out of them, she insists that it's all a big scientific misunderstanding. "No, no, I know his head was turned into a jelly bean in front of my very eyes. I have seen this before - it's JellyBellyItis. Very tragic." Moron. Conveniently she is never around to see any of the alien activity for many episodes, thus attempting to solidify her status as a scientific genius. All it really does is make you wonder why she is never there for the important things. Which brings me to my next item...

3) Scully is without a doubt the worst FBI agent I have ever seen. She is always at a loss for a weapon when trouble comes her way - too bad that standard FBI-issue gun isn't nearby since you dropped it in the shower earlier like a champion. And when she does miraculously hang on to her gun, she holds it like a limp noodle and kind of just waves it toward the attackers, as if she is hoping it will start firing on its own. 

She also gets knocked unconscious about three times per episode. Once by a little girl. I get it; she's the girl on the team and it's the 90s and life is always more exciting when someone's unconscious.But they are the F. B.  I. I would hate to have to explain to a child's parents that I didn't rescue their son from a kidnapper because I tripped and fell over my own gun after I dropped it because loud noises scare me. 

"What's that? You want me to hold on to your gum? OH, gun. Uh-huh. Then what? Okay, which part is the trigger? And then I impress him?? OH, arrest him. Okay. Do I tell him I work for the FBI or is that a secret?"

So if you decide to watch, prepare yourself. It isn't pretty. Her suits certainly aren't.

Family Reunion

I’ve got three eyes; my mom has nine.
People tease her all the time.
Although I guess that’s not as bad
As the awkward five arms on my dad.

Uncle Jim has one eye straight,
The other’s looking at the lake.
Aunt Marie was his nice wife,
Before she became Uncle Mike.

Then we have my cousin Paul,
Who somehow is his own grandpa.
That’s not as bad as cousin Joe—
He’s still counting all his toes.

Grandma Cat is worse off, too.
She has a hard time finding shoes.
It might be hard for me as well
If I had to wear a men’s size twelve.

Mick and Rick get no respect
Since they’re joined up at the neck.
One leg each, it seems unfair
When each one wants to go somewhere.

And of course let’s not forget
My favorite cousin Margaret.
Her hair glows bright, it is so nice
Since the treatment for the lice.

It is so convenient, too
To be related six ways to Great-Aunt Ruth.
It doesn’t bother me too much;
I think it adds a special touch.

So now you know; it’s not a trick.
For a joke, it’d be quite sick.
But, see, it doesn’t bother me;
This is just my family.

People think that it’s too bad
That our family looks so sad.
But if you haven’t heard by word of mouth
That’s how we do it in the South.

Wedding Etiquette - or as I like to call it, Weddinquette

We all know I am the resident expert on etiquette.  But what you might not know is that my expertise is not limited to just general etiquette; indeed, I am a multi-faceted diamond of etiquette wisdom. My particular skill set involves weddings. I'm not talking about whom to invite, which colors go with what season or how the invitation should face in the envelope (I do know that last one, thanks to my mom. I told you I was multi-faceted). No, these rules are much more sophisticated. Ahem.

1) You cannot "steal" a color from another bride. It's a color. Possibly one of the only things on the planet that no one owns and therefore cannot be stolen. I liked pink for my wedding. And then, a few weeks later, I went to another wedding where the bride also used pink. For. Shame. She knew I liked that color. She knew I used that color. She knew I had submitted the copyright to use that shade of pink 6 whole months before. And she didn't. even. care. But that worked out, because neither did I.

2) Getting married is not a race. It's not a competition. It might just be two people getting married - crazy, I know. So when you tell me that you're getting married in June even though I am getting married in July, the appropriate response from me is not OH MY GOODNESS ARE YOU SERIOUS I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'LL BE MARRIED FOR ONE WHOLE MONTH LONGER THAN ME I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIIIIIIIIENDS. It doesn't matter. Everyone just gets married as soon as they can. So if that means you're engaged for 3 months or 3 years, it is not a race. Repeat: It is not a race. Plus just because someone gets married before me doesn't mean they'll always be married longer than me. They could very well get hit by a bus or mauled by a bear. You just never know.

3) Do not talk about the bridal hairstyles you hate, the bridesmaids dresses you find tacky, or the bridesmaids shoes you cannot stand to wear to the bride - odds are very very very good that she has chosen all of these things for her bridesmaids and she is just about to show you a picture of all of it. Oops. This is the one area where I feel like the bride can get what she wants with no objections**. If I agree to be in your wedding, then I accept the fact that I might be wearing a neon purple miniskirt in the middle of winter. That's just how it works. For example, at my wedding, I used pink AND YOU BETTER NOT STEAL IT. Pink is not my sister's favorite color. (I know this because I know my sister, not because she complained.) However, she wore the dress and got the shoes and looked fabulous, might I add. So, in the words of Nike, when it comes to that stuff, Just Do It. **This does not include cost - not everyone can afford a $300 bridesmaid dress and that doesn't go with the bride getting whatever she wants rule. 

Ain't she perdy?

4) Go ahead and get over your aversion to the YMCA. It will happen. It's the only song that a bunch of white Southerners can dance to with a reasonable degree of skill. 

5) Finally, if you are going to "take notes" at someone else's wedding for your own wedding, that's fine. But please don't bring an actual notebook with you and really take notes. This is a true story. No names have been given to protect the innocent. But you know who you are. Not. Cool.

This has been K-Veld's special wedding report. 

A Few Thoughts on Etiquette

As you have all likely noticed by now, I am the epitome of grace and dignity. And as a public service to you, I have decided to highlight a few less-than-classy things that just really bug the crap out of me. Imagine I said that last sentence in a British accent and it will seem much classier.

1) When people say "You know <insert tidbit here>, right?"
No, I don't know. If I knew, would you have just had to tell me? Probably not. Plus there is no way to say that without looking like a complete tool. And it takes 5x as long as just TELLING me to begin with. Quit it. Quit it. 

2) When people say "Ew, what you're eating looks gross." That might be true. But I still have to eat it. And now I am sad. And hungry. I'm sadgry : ( If you are going to say that you automatically have to buy me lunch. I'm pretty sure it's a law.

3) Aol.com email addresses. It's 2012.

4) When someone constantly looks at something else on your person while they are talking to you. Do I have something in my teeth? Is my bra strap showing? Am I bleeding from my eyes? TELL ME YOUR SECRETS.

5) Orange Skittles.

6) When someone announces that you are in the bathroom during a company meeting. Everyone poops. But my CEO doesn't need to know about it.

6a) When I misspell the word "etiquette" so that even after I fix it the url still has it spelled wrong. Fail.

7) When lists end abruptly.

I like to keep everything fair and legal, so in the interest of full disclosure, I did not take this picture. 

Sticks and stone can break my bones, but words can hurt the most

Today someone very casually asked me if "everyone in the South is a retard." Classy, huh?

For starters, even if you're not from here, you live here, in the South, now. So don't be too terribly surprised when we all turn on you, no shoes and all.

Second of all - really? People still say that? A few months ago my sister-in-law wrote a post about the "R" word, and I was surprised to hear how often she heard it. But then I thought about how she has two little kids, and surely she must have heard it from one of their classmates. I could not picture an adult using the word "retarded" as a synonym for stupid.

And then a grown person walked into my office today and uttered those words. I was floored. I was speechless. And for anyone who knows me (or has spoken to me for five minutes), I am never, ever speechless.

So is this really acceptable? Is it really okay for someone to speak of something like this so casually, as if their words don't matter? I hope not. I really do. Because if that is the case now, where do we go from here? How much worse does it have to get before someone finally takes offense?

I have a six-year-old niece with Down Syndrome. Her name is Adalie.

Adalie is a good kid. She's sweet, loves others more than herself, and is always willing to give you a hug whenever you need one. And she will never get to do the same things in the same way as you, because she is retarded. But she isn't retarded in the way that person meant it today. She isn't stupid. She isn't slow. She isn't weird and she certainly has more to offer this world than some of the "normal" people I've come into contact with. She is just a little different.

Don't let it go any further. You don't have to have a kid or a niece or a cousin or a friend who learns or talks or acts differently to know that this is wrong. Here's a good test: If you can replace the word "retarded" in a sentence with "stupid," pick a different word. Pick a different word for your own sake, but mostly for the sake of all the kids like Adalie out there who will never be considered good enough by ignorant people.

And, for the love of Nancy, DON'T USE IT AT WORK. COME ON. Jerk.

Rant = over.

Dr. Quinn, Idiot Wrangler

Recently I have started re-watching some old Dr. Quinn episodes. I used to love Dr. Quinn. I remember the day my friend Kellan Rankhorn introduced me to the show, and we would watch it together at her house as Dr. Quinn saved the townspeople and sometimes the ones traveling through. It was glorious.

However, as much as I have enjoyed the memories, a few things have stuck out to me that are both odd and hilarious. Which brings us to my great new word: Oddarious.

The first oddarious thing is Sully and his self-translation. He speaks the language of the Cheyenne, the feisty and often-genocided Native American tribe that lives near the town. But instead of using other devices to clue us in on the conversation, like, I don't know, one of the townspeople asking what he said, he just says the English translation out loud to everyone. "Me gusta mi estomago... <pause pause pause> ... I like my stomach." It's weird. At first I thought, okay, we can reasonably assume that he is just translating it because he knows none of the townspeople get it. But then he did it to just the Native Americans. He spoke to them in their native language. And then said it again in English. ...why did you do that, Sully? Do you need me to ask it in a different language first for you to answer me? TELL ME WHY YOU'RE DOING THIS.

The next facet of oddariousness is Dr. Quinn and her whispering. She whispers all the time. Maybe it's for dramatic effect; maybe she has chronic laryngitis. Whatever it is renders her almost mute on my speakers, causing me to turn them up high and then jump fifty feet in the air when someone else speaks at a normal volume, or heaven forbid, shouts something. I seriously considered trying to find a way to close-caption the Youtube videos. I just don't understand why she whispers. She seems totally fine as she says: "Children, let's talk about what we learned today." Then, right as she is about to make her point, her voice drops to a breathy British whisper, and says quietly, "Violence is never the answer." You've got some valid points, Dr. Quinn, but none of us can HEAR YOU. Speak up, sister. How she and Sully manage between him saying everything twice and her whispering an answer back, I'll never know.

My favorite oddarious thing is the stupid, stupid townspeople. I don't like using the word stupid, and I reserve it only for the most deserving things. Trust me, this is one of those things. These people have got to make up the dumbest population in the world. In the beginning of the episode, the shop owner/barber/saloon guy is racist. Then, Dr. Quinn/Sully/Dr. Quinn and Sully give a stirring speech (twice, and whispered) about how we're all equal. The townspeople are appropriately remorseful and vow to change their ways. But then the next week they're right back where they started, trying to beat up or steal from the Native Americans/black people/<insert minority group here>. They were convinced that joining the KKK would be a "fun group for the men to join." They let a guy who beat up a girl continue to run his brothel. THEY HAVE A BROTHEL. That ain't right.

So if you want to watch Dr. Quinn but just can't find the time, let me sum up the series for you:

• Someone is sick.
• This person is also ostracized for <insert race or dark past description here>
• Dr. Quinn doesn't care - she helps them anyway.
• Dr. Quinn gives a dramatic speech to the townspeople.
• The townspeople grump and humph and start to see the error of their ways.
• A dramatic event occurs to truly show them how wrong they are.
• The townspeople say they're sorry to the ostracized person.
• This apology will cause the ostracized person to forget all insults, rock-throwing and barn-burning previously inflicted on them.
• Everyone is friends.

Next week on Dr. Quinn: Someone is sick.