If You Say So

"Live every day as if it's your last. ... One day you'll be right."

~Herb Caen

Happy Star Wars Day

May the Forth be with you.

Oh c'mon...who doesn't love a bad pun?

Does Anybody Really Care?

So while I've been busy blogging my little fingers out, blogging has been upstaged by this new kid on the block. Something called "Facebook."

"Be my friend!" I kept hearing.

"You dork, I'm already your friend," I'd respond.

And then I'd get "the look," the one that told me who the dork really was. Because obviously, they were referring to the Facebook-type-of-friend and could I possibly be any more of a Luddite?

Uh, yeah. Have I mentioned my turntable lately?

But I finally caved in and opened a Facebook account to see what the fuss was all about, and suddenly started getting all these "friend" requests. Okay, sure. I'll be your friend. And yours. And yours. Oh, but good gawd, not yours.I believe that restraining order is still in effect, dude. Go away.

Okay. So now I've got friends.

And in the process I've learned that while Facebook is great for reconnecting with old friends, it's also a euphanism for exponential minutia. Because now that I'm on Facebook, I'm privy to fascinating, fun-filled facts about how other people spend their days, such as:

9:45 am: "Going for a cup of coffee."
10:08 am: "Ordered a soy latte, extra hot. Burned my tongue."
10:29 am: "Return home. Watching The View. Wassup with Whoopi's eyebrows?"

And so on. Ah, but now even Facebook is passe. This doesn't surprise me because I do seem to have that Midas touch. If only I'd stayed away from Facebook, it would still be the hottest thing since my friend's soy latte. Facebook comments are too long, trend-seekers say. Too lengthy. Too verbose.

Now, it's all about Twitter.

Twitter this. Twitter that. Tweet me, bro. Limited to something like 143 characters, "tweets" are brief little postings meant to capture the immediacy of life. And, perhaps, the mundane?

5:05 pm: "Blink."
5:06 pm: "Blink."
5:08 pm: "Blink, blink" (dust in eye)
5:09 pm: "Kink (owowow cramp in leg!)"
5:10 pm: "Wink" (hey there, cutie!)
5:12 pm: Blink

Gripping commentary, indeed. Tweets make a Facebook posting sound like an excerpt from Les Miserables.

So don't bother looking for my Twitter account anytime soon. I'm not even sure I'll maintain my Facebook site because if my life bores me, I can only imagine what it might do to you. Can we say narcolepsy?

At least blogging allows me to construct complete sentences, convey an occasional opinion and get things off my chest. Like ranting about sites that capture the microscopic details of life. Or maybe announcing to everyone that I'm about to pull a Whoopi and go pluck my eyebrows.

Wink.

Amen, Sister

"I believe that computers have taken over the world. I believe that they have in many ways ruined our children. I believe that kids used to love to go out and play.

"I believe that social graces are gone because manners are gone because all people do is sit around and text. I think it's obnoxious."

~Stevie Nicks

There Goes My Vacation

Read in today's San Francisco Chronicle that the citizens of Appenzell, a tiny town situated in the heart of Switzerland, voted to pass legislation that will ban nude hiking in the Swiss Alps.

Great. Now what am I supposed to do?

Just Like Your Aunt Ruth

Ever since my San Francisco Chronicle pet column was bumped up to weekly (versus monthly), I get tons of reader feedback, which I really enjoy. Even the negative ones...heck, at least they're reading a newspaper, I say.

Coupled with my personal email, I usually have a lengthy stack to answer. However, I've found I can get through all of them pretty quickly if I first scan all emails in "preview mode" and return to each one later for responding. And that's what I was doing late Sunday evening.

"Loved your last tale about Elvis..."
"This is to confirm your Amazon order..."
"Chris Slattery has added you as a friend on Facebook..."
"Mom passed away today..."
"Here's your DHS alumni newsletter..."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up here.

I returned to the email from my cousin Brent. What the heck--his mom passed away? But wait. His mother was my beloved Aunt Ruth. Did that mean... honest to God, it took a second to register.

Aunt Ruth died today?

That couldn't be. Although 89, Aunt Ruth was ageless, vibrant, a fiery redhead that I always described as "Julie Roberts as a senior." I had to admire her from afar since she never lived nearby, but distance didn't matter. In fact, it added to her allure. I felt like I knew the mysterious and glamourous Aunt Ruth, thanks to Dad's countless stories about his older sister. Her modeling and acting days in New York. Her television talk show in Texas. A recognized artist who was commissioned to paint for celebrities such as Pavarotti, Ann Margaret, Cesar Romero, Ginger Rogers and Charlton Heston.

Well into her late eighties, Aunt Ruth was still teaching art at a local community college and active in her Christian Science faith. Only recently, she had moved to New Mexico to be near her son, my cousin Brent. But she was still living independently, still enthusiastic about exploring yet another phase in her life, and still chuckling that deep, throaty chuckle that belied her age.

Only after her death did I learn she had been in declining health for several weeks. She never once complained, never once dropped even the slightest hint that life was anything but wonderful. That's why her passing came as such a shock.

Dad often groused that his big sister was stubborn. Too much a "woman's libber," he complained. Too independent. Too determined. Too feisty and free-spirited and spunky. And many times, when I'd rub him the wrong way as I so often did, maybe vote for the wrong candidate or support the wrong initiative, he'd look at me and bellow, "You're just like your Aunt Ruth!"

And when I'd respond with a heartfelt "thank you!" he would simply shake his head and mutter again, under his breath and honestly perplexed, "Just like your Aunt Ruth."

Indeed. I should be so lucky.

When You Least Expect It

I'll admit, I've been down in the dumps after learning that parts of my lower face and mouth are permanently numb. Still, I'm trying to keep my situation in perspective: things could be much worse. Just scan the front page of any newspaper (hey, support your local newspaper!) and you know what I mean. If a numb face is all I can complain about, well, I'm pretty darned lucky.

So I was sitting in church this morning, enjoying the uplifting Easter message made all the more poignant after a week of such negativity. When the service was over, I got up to leave, but the person sitting next to me tapped my arm.

"Excuse me," she asked. "Do you have a minute?"

I'd never seen this woman before and looked at her just a tad suspiciously. As we were sadly reminded this week, going to church doesn't automatically make someone a decent person. The woman, in her mid sixties, maybe early seventies, was a striking, attractive, well-dressed redhead. And she was tall...she looked me square in the eye and I'm 5'9.

"You don't know that you and I are part of a very exclusive club," she began.

Uh oh, crackpot. I prepared to bolt.

"When my grandmother was a little girl, she was ridiculed relentlessly for being so tall," she explained. "And so as an adult, she formed the Long Stemmed American Beauty Rose Club for all the tall, beautiful, slender women of the world."

Had she said "slender?" Go on.

She reached in her purse and gave me a business card. It simply read, Long Stemmed American Beauty Rose Club - lifetime member, with an etching of a rose and nothing else.

"Welcome to the club," she smiled. "And Happy Easter." Then she turned around and left.

Okay, so maybe I have no feeling in my lower face. Bummer, right. But I can emote, thank goodness. I can still grimace, pucker, smirk, scowl. And smile.

Just witness the big one that crossed my face on this fine Easter morning.