It's what you said...

In 20 years…I won’t remember what you bought me, I’ll remember what you said to me. Money isn’t everything. As a child, it may sometimes seem as though having the “perfect this” or the “exact that” is the answer to all your problems. The thinking is “I’ll be good enough when I have the latest video game/toy/entertainment system ect.” In looking back, I couldn’t tell you exactly what toys I actually got, or what purchases my mom sacrificially retrieved so I could feel cool at school. Nope. I mean I’m sure I got lots of toys and stuffed animals as a child, but the specifics are a blur. What my mother SAID to me, on the other hand, is clear as glass. See the thing is, as we grow up the things we tend to remember most about our parents are the lessons they taught us and the way they treated us, not the toys and tricks they bought us. As I write this, I am trying to remember the coolest present I ever got for my birthday from either of my parents…besides the obvious: car at 16, blah,blah,blah….nothing really jumps to mind. But ask me to tell what my parents have taught me about work ethic and humility and slightly more than a zillion thoughts come to mind. As parents, there must be an overwhelmingly strong urge to want to give your child the best of everything and anything--- and on the reverse side, a sinking feeling when your are not possibly able to do so. At this point, it is more important than ever to remember: children grow, and they outgrow things. But lessons? No, those are for life. Presents and gifts are nice, but those things are secondary, icing on the cake. The good stuff, the cream of the crop? Those can’t be found on a store shelf. They don’t have a price tag. And even if they did, it’d be ridiculously difficult to afford them.

The Locker Room

In case it's been a while since you've suffered through high school gym class, let me take you on a stroll through memory lane. Fortunately for me, my afternoon gym conquest was nothing short of a bad VH1 reality TV show. Upon completing what seemed like an endless run on the terrormill, I limped into the suana for some pore-cleansing hell. As neurotic as I am, I always bring reading material to give the impression to my fellow sweaters that I am reading, while in actuality, I am just posing so to avoid lame small talk. Rude? Maybe, but at least its subtle rudeness. Unlike the sweaty beheamoth next to me. This lady was a talkerrrrrrrrrrr. Judging by her lack of social skills, I'm guessing she's probably the cliche'd crazy cat woman, who's only sort of social contact occurs by accosting innocent strangers, just trying to get their sweat on (me). Anyways, not 5 minutes had passed before she inquired, "Whatcha readin'?" While temped to respond with "No Engles" I reluctantly held up my December "Vogue" and smiled (I mean, hell, I was reading VOGUE, and NOT the Spanish version). Only for her to reply with an eager, "Cool!!" and scootch up next to me. Did I mention we were in a SUANA. You know, the insanely small wooden hot boxes that serve as the equivalent as a human microwave. Ah, this pesky buttinsky wasn't giving up easily. I knew at this precise moment my sauna time was going to have to be cut short. This sauna wasn't big enough for the both of us. And let's face it, given my exhausted, hungry, and sweaty state of being---it is not totally unforseeable that I might do something crazy, like say...mistake her thick arm for a chicken wing and take a heaping bite. Due to her ridiculously close proximity, I wasn't sure how I could discreetly move away without blatently offending her. So I bailed. "Oh, w" I thought to myself. I washed my face and began to unload my locker so I could change into my comfy sweats for the drive home, when who appeared with her stuff (I kid you not) in the locker RIGHT beneath mine. To fully understand how improbable this is, let me inform you of the plethora of available lockers. probably close to two hundred. And Talkers-MaGee chose the locker which was directly under mine. Now I was certain. I was indeed, being "punk'd". If only....but no, no Ashton popping out from around the corner with a big smile and camera crew. Instead, the talkative sweat-er was again angling for some more "girl-talk" as she tried to compliment me on my Dooney and Bourke gym bag. I should have gone the "no engles" route. Upon thanking her and cramming my stuff into my bag as haphazardly as I could, sorta like the way I would if had just woken up in a strange guys bed after one two many shots of vodka the night before, I jammed my feet into my shoes and prayed that I didnt leave anything behind. Just as I was about to grab the last of my things, I noticed her leaning over the bench half naked while her ginormous SWEATY boob dangled above my bag (cringe, gasp!) . In sheer horror, I looked up--which she must have erroneously interpreted as a sign of friendship--when she squealed, "It so crassy". Um okay, The contraction is "it'S". New Rule this year: sentences MUST HAVE VERBS! No verb, no sentence! and in the word is cLassy. LLLLLLLLLLLLL. I wasn't sure if I should send her the dry cleaning bill now or later. But upon realizing that this would likely lead to further interaction in some minor way, I opted to suck it up and high-tail it the hell out of ther. Moral of the story: No Engles, lo siento.

Are We 'Googling' Ourselves to Death?

Today I had the staunch realization that I not only have (what I’ll) hypochondriac tendencies, but also a disordered relationship with Google. Let me explain. Upon my favorite afternoon pastime of farting around on the internet, I engaged in a little search engine action by thinking up any slight symptom or ailment of recent….and entering into the search query. Before long, I was completely convinced that I indeed suffer from anything and everything…From arachnophobia to zelophobia. I had it, and I had it badddddddddd. “Wait, Wait, WAIT!” my mind clamored, “This is just another one of my loon behaviors that makes absolutely no sense, but I still do it anyways.” If left alone, I could google myself right into the grave. Before long, I got to thinking, is “googling” your symptoms something I alone am guilty of? Or are there others like me? How many other people out there seek google as a first response to medical questions? I wonder if there is something empowering about having the capability to play patient AND doctor? Well, Google makes it possible. At the click of a mouse and a bit of typing, it is possible to find answers to anything! True, not all credible. But either way, it’s feedback. We know the credibility of the internet. It’s not news, but we goole-goaltend anyway. I guess it boils down to one thing: What DID we do before the internet?