Category Archives: humor

A Month off Facebook

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After a month off Facebook, here’s what I’ve missed and not missed.

I miss:

People I barely knew being involved in my life. Because I’m an author, a lot of people I had never met but who read my books friended me. We kept up casually, oh so casually. There would be an occasional comment on a cat picture, a like for something I’d crocheted or canned, a laugh at the picture of me falling in mud. I miss the casual camaraderie of people I only knew because they read my books and decided they liked me.

Getting advice. I know a thousand people who are smart and savvy experts at something, often something obscure. I miss hopping online to ask “Is it okay to do the stitches backwards when you’re edging the blanket” or “what columns should a household budget have” or even “does this look like poison ivy to you?”  While there is a website response to every query put into a search engine, I miss the voices of people familiar to me, ones I trust not to steer me astray. That little blue star appearing in query responses now gives me the heebeejeebies. Its advice is just flat WRONG half the time, and in some cases that could result in blowing one’s house up (clearing a gas line; how long to pressure can meat). Ain’t listening to the little blue star; I miss those thousand or so smart, sensible friends.

Ironically, I also miss GIVING advice. I’m good at some specific things, but here in Wytheville where we know hardly anyone, people don’t ask me about radio reporting/storytelling/writing/canning/crocheting/swimming/foraging/homesteading/cats.

Where’s Wendy? I thought this was a dumb game I played because travel took me so many places where there were pretty pictures to be taken. Turns out, it grounded me back to my home base. When I traveled, it made me feel like people cared where I was; plus it was silly clean fun. A lot of weight for a small game, but there it is. I miss that.

I do not miss:

What I’m eating pictures. Most of my friends are foodies. Sometimes I got good ideas from them. Mostly I just had greens envy.

Feet pictures. For some reason, every time someone gets hurt, they post these pics online. It stands to reason we injure our feet more than other parts of us, given their suboptimal working conditions and general lack of care in our society. But yeesh. I don’t want to see your naked feet unless I’m teaching you to swim, kay, thanks. Now you know.

People talking politics in punchlines. I love a good political debate with a well-informed friend who challenges my thinking. I have a fair few friends who fall into this category, and I look forward to seeing them in person more now, because my ears are not full of the white noise from online memes and punditry. Savoring a good conversation has become an art form, but it’s almost weird to ask friends to Zoom with you just to see each other because, hey, you know, we have social media for that. We don’t have to be intentional. Do we?

People I barely know getting involved in my life. Yes, I know. While I miss the casual, friendly reader who decided they liked me, I don’t miss the friends of friends who showed up to yell that I am part of the Great Evil because a) I don’t attend an evangelical church (we are Quakers) b) I don’t agree with all the parts of all the scripts of the political party I align with (“BUT HOW CAN YOU DENY THE RIGHTS OF…”) I do not miss the virtue signalers convinced that dismantling unjust systems means only those who deserve to will get hurt. Ha.

Reels. You suck, Zuck. Great timewasters of unsafe viewing; some of those “animal rescue” videos are pure evil.

Doomscrolling. I’m astonished, absolutely astonished, at having enough time to learn a new pattern, write the notes for the last chapter, try a new recipe, learn why carrots and cauliflower should be planted near each other, research writing grants at the end of the day. I always told myself I was too tired, too emotionally and intellectually drained to start something new after dinner. Ha. New life, new fun, new ideas, new ways to pursue old interests. The time I’ve gotten back is indescribable, and I don’t want to sound like someone who is encouraging others. We all make our own decisions. Just, don’t let anyone tell you the time is not real, when you get it back. It’s amazing. And fun.

More things to talk about later, but here it is a month in: no regrets. Not even the advice. :]

Christmas with the Family

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Sometimes you just can’t write blogs because you can’t say anything much. Family Christmases at my parents’ house tend to happen in January because that’s when my older sister and her husband can get away from his demanding job as a high end woodwork guy. He’s the only one who knows how to run the machine that does the specialty stuff and specialty stuff is a BIG DEAL for rich people around Christmas.

We don’t mind the lopsided holiday season. I tell everyone we’re Orthodox and that’s why we usually celebrate on Jan. 6. (We’re not but it’s easier than explaining family dynamics.)

Our family Christmases put the fun in dysfunctional. My dad grew up on a poultry farm, and once he left home, he refused to eat another bird for the rest of his life. He’s 86 now and still holding to that promise. My mother grew up on a poultry farm and likes turkey and chicken, just not eggs. “I know where they come from,” she says.

So cooking for my family on Epiphany Day – ehm, sorry, Christmas – can be, in a word, silly.

Start with breakfast. My father lives for bacon. Apparently the pig farm next door to his parents’ chicken run didn’t dissuade him. So he makes bacon in the microwave while my mother scrambles eggs for him and egg beaters for herself. And don’t forget the biscuit. This sounds not too weird, but the biscuit is made in an air fryer that doubles as a toaster, and it uses infrared waves instead of the usual convection, because my dad loves gadgets. So the label of the fryer has “Pizza, toast, baked potatoes” instead of the usual bake, broil, warm kind of thing. I refer to it as bake, cattle, and roll. Which no one in the family thinks funny.

The microwave doubles as a convection oven. Yeah, they make those. I have never actually explored whether dad is making bacon using microwaves or the more conventional–sorry, convectional–kind of heat. I am afraid he will start asking me to make it. I loath bacon, even the sight of it. That stuff is gross. I accept that this makes me unAmerican.

After breakfast, we open presents. All the women in my family are addicted to thrift stores. We tend to give each other interesting things: wicker baskets stuffed with little soaps, still marked 25 cents each. Habitat for Humanity tags have the kind of glue that could solve earthquake construction problems worldwide. This year I got a Snoopy and Woodstock that sing when you push the button (Goodwill). Tracy got a sweatshirt of Scotty dogs decorating a tree (AmVets). Mom got a bag with her first name embroidered on it (Salvation Army).

Then, because it is Jan. 6, we take down the tree. The tree is small, four feet high, made of plastic. Actually, you can’t see the tree because every square plastic inch of it is covered in ornaments.

My mother lives for Christmas. 19 plastic totes, two of them alone holding angels, adorn the corner of our garage. So after the ritual breakfast and presents, they adorn the living room. It takes two grown women an entire day to dismantle the tree, the seven nativity sets, and the outside decorations, replacing each in their designated box, and each box in a Merry Tetris Christmas sort of way back into their plastic totes. I started wrapping a non-box Nativity in paper towels in the tote, and my mother said, “Those pink ones are for the other nativity. Use the brown paper towels.”

Control issues aside, my mom really does Christmas up. There’s not a room in the house unfestooned with something red, green, or sparkly. During the pandemic, out of sheer boredom and unwillingness to buy one more plastic thing from Amazon, Jack and I made her a Christmas tree out of stacked and glued cat food cans, decorated with stick stars. She still has it. It’s hideous but you know, we made it. And it’s a Christmas decoration.

The ritual Replacing of the Totes (with their carefully repackaged objects in their carefully aligned boxes) back in the corner of the garage signals the end of the season. All is calm, all is right. Until next Thanksgiving, when we will pull it all out and do it again. Because, family.