Author: Snappshots

How smart is YOUR phone?

.Reading time 8 minutes.

I promised a lighter post. Though I still feel like I could go on and on about heavy things, I’m going to tell you a little about the world of technology as it relates to me.

I have a smart phone. It is very smart. It is so smart that I almost don’t need the Informinator anymore. However, I still do need her for obscure protocols and regional trivia that even my smart phone doesn’t know.

My phone is a lot less blunt than the Informinator. It has never chastised me for my poor behavior or called me out for…oh, everything.  I need to get a set of slightly more rebellious friends so that I can be the cream of the crop and not the ear the farmer thows away after a spanking. Do farmers do that? Maybe not. We are still adjusting to life in the country.

Whatever.

When I first got my smart phone, thus breaking my verbal contract with the Informinator to remain smartphone-less until February 12, 2013, I was convinced the purpose of the phone was to make me smarter. That was supposed to be the smart part of the whole deal. Three months later, I know the truth. It is a truth of an entirely different nature. The smart phone does not make you smarter. It is simply there to point out how dumb you really are. It exists for two basic reasons:

(1)    To provide information in a lightning fast manner to dumb people.

(2)    To mock the person using it.

It doesn’t make me smarter. It points out how dumb I really am. And it laughs at me as it does so.

For instance, recently my phone—I shall call her Gladys—offered me a better way to type on the clunky little touch screen keyboard. This offer came to me in a kindly worded, “Would you like to try Swype?” kind of way. It was friendly, warm, touching. So I thought it over. Surely swype was the next best thing to superpowers if it is offering it to me in such a lovely way. So I said yes. Sure. I’ll try your way of typing. For those who don’t have such a technology, this consists of swiping your fingers from key to key instead of plunking.  My plunking is hamfisted and awkward and presents all sorts of misspellings in more than one language. Surely this new Swype is my ticket out of plunking, I said to myself. Let’s do it. This is gonna be awesome.

For awhile, it was.  And then, recently, something happened. Call it a cruel trick. A bait and switch. I’m not sure how to explain it. But somewhere in the last week, Gladys has turned on me. I blame the Informinator.

Gladys (that’s my phone again…some of you have short attention spans) likes to guess the words I’m trying to say while texting. Often, she is right. And I’ve grown accustomed to that first guess being correct. I guess you could say I’ve gotten a little lazy in allowing her to guess my thought without my proofreading over her shoulder.

So this week, I was texting back and forth with my mother in law, who was on the west coast at the time.  I was three hours ahead of her and it was after 11 my time, so I was ready to call it a night. So, to close out this conversation, I attempted to announce that I was going to bed. And here is exactly how that conversation went.

“I am going to breed more. Goodnight to you west coasters.”  And I put my phone away, happy to have closed out the conversation amicably.

Then Gladys beeped again. Another text. Hmm.

“GOING TO BREED MORE?” It said. This was still my mother in law. My eyes got large as I reread my previous message. There it was in blinky little letters. Going to breed more. Goodnight to you west coasters. Is that what you kids are calling it these days?

No no no no no no no no. Not going to breed more. Going to BED NOW.  Not going to breed at all, I said. Not even a little bit. No breeding.

That’s what u said, she typed.

Why does “breed” EVER come up in predictive texting? People with smart phone do not discuss breeding via text. I would argue that this has never come up in a texting context.

The next day—a mere 12 hours later—I was texting a friend about some things that were on her mind. We weren’t discussing details, but it was obvious to me that the situations could use a prayer or two.

“I’m sorry you’ve had some heavy stuff to deal with,” I typed on my super smart phone. “I will potty for you.”

And then I sat back in my fluffy brown chair and turned on the TV. I figured that conversation was over. My phone beeped again.

“Will you really? Will you potty for me?” She asked. I furrowed my brow, read my previous message. Yep. I had offered to potty about it.

“That’s probably the kindest gesture I’ve ever gotten” she said.

And I have laughed really hard as I cursed Gladys for her evil antics.  Since then, she has convinced me to begin playing a word game that I cannot win.  I’m an English major. I can’t beat anyone at this game.  So I thought if I let Gladys match me up with a similar opponent –a stranger of similar wordsmith skills–I would have a shot at winning. She’s a smart phone. She knows my skills and game scores.

So she found me a match.
Even Bugger39 beat me.
Bad.

I guess they have to market them as smart phones. If they called them Vindictive Phones, nobody would buy them. I just call her Gladys and I’m not letting her take dictation anymore. I’m taking back my life.

I’m Missy Snapp and I approve this message.

The house of mourning

.Reading time 7 minutes.

WARNING AND DISCLAIMER: This is a sad post about sad things. If you don’t feel like shouldering such, don’t read it.  Sometimes, with knowledge comes sadness. Just consider yourself warned.

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Ecclesiastes 7 : 2 It is better to go to the house of mourning
than to go to the house of feasting,
for this is the end of all mankind,
and the living will lay it to heart.
3 Sorrow is better than laughter,
for by sadness of face the heart is made glad.
4 The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning,
but the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.

I feel like I’ve been in the house of mourning more since July than I was for the last 5 years. And while I understand that people grow through trials, and what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and the house of mourning teaches lessons we could never learn in the house of mirth, I’d still rather not go there, if given the choice. Who chooses the dentist over Disney? No thanks. I’d much prefer the house of mirth. Sometimes there’s no choice in the matter.

On Sunday evening, September 9, a 6-year-old girl named Coleen Persell, departed rather suddenly and crossed over into eternity. The world we live in was radically changed. And though I have never met her, my world was changed, too. Why? Because people I love, loved her. Because I am no different from her mother. I have four children also. I live on a farm, too. My kids are around dangerous equipment; things that when they work perfectly, aren’t so dangerous. But when they don’t, well…sometimes tragedy strikes in the worst way.  I worry about this every day of my life.

So when I was told that this precious girl had claimed her crown far earlier than anyone wanted, I cried. And I prayed. And I’ve cried and prayed since…many times. Not an hour has gone by that I don’t think of it. And who am I? Nobody.  So for those in her life daily– her parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, cousins, aunts and uncles, teachers, and adorers, this is very, very, VERY hard.

I have thought about my own kids so much this week. When they have awakened in the middle of the night with a bad dream or a cramping leg, I have been glad to see them—no matter the hour. When I wrenched my back getting out of bed to put one of them back in bed  (yeah, I know…if The Signs of Being Pathetic were an interesting blog post, this detail would make the cut), I didn’t complain. I thought back to my little family before Surprise #4 arrived. We were happy. We felt complete enough. But when a child is born, you form a new quadrant of your heart just for that one child. It’s a part of you that wasn’t there before. And they pump your life full of pictures and I love yous and leg cramps and tellmeastories and funny expressions and speech impediments and explanations about Lady Liberty that warm you to your very core. And from that point, you can never go back. Because that quadrant of your heart is born and now full. And if that child leaves you early, that part of your heart cannot go back to feeling the way you did before. It’s there now. You can’t teach it to feel less.

I’m posting a link to Coleen’s voice as she draws a picture and explains the Statue of Liberty.

I learned quite a lot from listening to her:

(1)    She is precious. No doubt about that. Like specially, preciously precious.

(2)    People who are gone are never really gone. It sounds cliché and maybe even a bit trite, but it’s true. Coleen was very much in my kitchen as I watched that and read all about her. That piece of you that forms when that child is born is still full of that child. And there are pieces everywhere that keep that child from ever really being gone.

(3)    The Statue of Liberty “stands for freedom.” This made me chuckle. She drove the point home in a voice too cute for Lady Liberty. Yes, it stands for freedom.

(4)    The One she likes the most, the most, the most…is God. Wow.

In this life, it’s hard to be free. There is pain and suffering and debt and worry and guilt and every other thing in between. Lots of things “stand for freedom,” but rarely do we ever feel free. However, freedom does exist.  Coleen understood a lot about freedom last year when she wrote about the statue of liberty. As much as we would all wish her back for some liberty lessons in our living rooms, I am utterly convinced that she knows everything about freedom now. She loves God the most, the most, the most. And she’s with Jesus now.

It doesn’t get any freer than that.

What matters

.Reading time 3 minutes.

I think I’ve been under a false impression for quite some time. I think I allow myself to believe what I need to believe just to get by sometimes. We have to live with ourselves somehow.  But then there are moments where you stare in the face of something: something big, or ugly, or troublesome, or scary. Just something. And you ask yourself “where did THAT come from?” And because we have to have answers, we trace that thing, whatever it is, backwards. We try to figure it out. Sometimes we can. Sometimes we can’t. But that’s when I realize, again, the thing I always knew: everything matters. Everything leads to something. Good or bad. Everything counts.  Think about it. Don’t you think this is true?

Minutes wasted lead to hours wasted or days wasted. The Golden Oreo (why did they have to come out with THESE?) leads to the Twinkies which leads to the bigger size jeans and to not feeling so great.  Every thought I have, every word I say, every half hour I spend, every bite I put in my mouth…every choice I make is propelling me in a certain direction. The problem I have is that I can’t see the end. I can’t see goal; the destination. The thing I’m working toward seems so far away that I can’t in my mind link the Oreo to it. The end of my life seems years away so what I do today doesn’t matter. I can get it right tomorrow. Or not. It feels out there. Ethereal. Intangible.  So I just roll along. In these jeans. With the TV on in the background. With things in my kids that I need to work with them to change. Things in my own life I need to change.

But the real problem is that I’m waiting for some big opportunity. Some BIG something. And it probably won’t happen that way. You don’t make these changes in fell swoops (I am SO happy I got to type that!). You make them 5 minutes at a time. One choice at a time. What I’m doing right this minute may completely impact what happens with my kids at 4 p.m., good or bad.

A year from now, I’ll be able to see clearly which direction my small choices moved me. I’ll be able to trace it back like I’m watching a movie. Looking forward, it’s a whole lot harder to do.

I have to do this. I see it. I have to do it. I need to identify what’s important and throw out what doesn’t help me achieve that. Along that line, I’m turning off the TV. Before I do, though, I have to ask: What is with all the hugging on Price is Right? Do they bond on Contestants Row? High fives would be a whole lot less awkward…

 

Dear Informinator,

.Reading time less than 1 minute.

You’re so vain.
I bet you think this blog is about you.
You’re so vain.
I bet you think this blog is about you, don’t you, don’t you, don’t you?

Those raised in the 80s will now be singing this song for approximately 23 days. I’m sorry about that. It had to be done.

Clearing the air.

.Reading time 5 minutes.

There are three people right now that I can think of who should have their own blogs. I will approach you all privately, only to be rejected. The Informinator is one that I will just mention publicly. There is so much I could say about her. It would never end. If I am lost and need an address or direction orientation, I call her first. If I were in jail or in surgery or trapped under something heavy, I’d call her first. Somehow, she’d know what to do.

She doesn’t have a smart phone and this is now a huge point of contention between us. Up until 2 months ago, we had a pact to stick together on the phone thing. We said we’d get smart phones together in February of 2013. But then my Dumb Phone died and my husband had a smart phone sitting unused at his office. I don’t think the Informinator is over this betrayal even now. Weeks have passed. She still won’t make eye contact with me. Maybe that’s because I’m usually sweaty when she sees me, but I think it’s the smart phone issue. I tried to console her. I said, “Informinator, if you had a smart phone, you’d be SOOOO smart that you’d want different friends. We’d all be too dumb for you. Think of it as a way to keep your relationships strong.” She just gave me the stink eye and kept on walking.

At any rate, since she doesn’t have the blog I try to get her to have, she contributes to mine by way of smartness and wry comments. If you ever read the comments section, then you’ve seen her little nuggets. The most recent one was this:

The Informinator says:

Are you ever going to tell them you never made it out of the driveway because you had a flat tire? They deserve to know.

This comment made me laugh out loud. It followed my HEY EVERYONE I’M GOING BIKING post. I did try to bike the 12 miles. I tried hard. I planned my route, packed my backpack, got dressed, pumped my tires, and got myself a large water bottle. I was ready.

Then, because I saw the Informinator’s name on AOL’s instant messenger, I messaged her about this. I mean, OBVIOUSLY, IMing the Informinator before biking is a precursor to actually biking.

(9:17:12 AM) missysnapp: Tires are pumped. Backpack secured. Lock in backpack. Publix is destination.
(9:17:34 AM) informinator: rain coat?
(9:17:35 AM) missysnapp: Must make it to Publix.
(9:17:37 AM) missysnapp: Ha
(9:17:44 AM) missysnapp: No rain in forecast till later
(9:17:50 AM) informinator: or will you be too fast for the rain to even land on you.
(9:17:58 AM) missysnapp: you are so right
(9:18:14 AM) missysnapp: much larger chance of overfilling my backpack.
(9:18:25 AM) missysnapp: Conditioner is on the list, if that scares you at all.
(9:18:33 AM) missysnapp: 😀
(9:19:11 AM) informinator: just remember the kmart debacle of 98. or whenever it was.
(9:19:44 AM) informinator: do not buy a giant jug of gatorade.
(9:19:49 AM) informinator: or a lantern
(9:22:17 AM) missysnapp: Duly noted.
(9:22:28 AM) missysnapp: To allay your fears…
(9:22:36 AM) missysnapp: I am not wearing my spandex bike shorts.
(9:22:42 AM) missysnapp: But only because I could not find them
(9:22:54 AM) missysnapp: I am off!

Immediately after this online conversation, I went outside to take pictures of myself ABOUT to go biking. They are so stupid that I will post one. Plus, besides the stupid factor, it proves that I was ready and willing to go biking.

Actually, it proves nothing except that I am a big enough loser to pose with my bike.

About 10 seconds after taking this shot, I got on my bike and pedaled three times.

Only to discover that the front tube was totally blown. Even if I had a spare tube in my possession, which I didn’t, I couldn’t have changed it. I don’t know how to change bike tires.

And that was that.

I was really mad about this. This forced me to go for a long walk, which wasn’t nearly as interesting or as exciting as my Publix adventure. Who knows what would have happened?

I have my tire ready to take in tomorrow. Maybe we’ll get another shot at this biking thing.

I’ll take pictures…

Time for some new Craigslist nuggets.

.Reading time 4 minutes.

I can’t help perusing. At least I can say I am not shopping for iPod nanos at the moment. Right now I’m looking for free pets. Not because I want one or intend to get one. Just because.

Cuz.

Maybe I do it because my other alternative is to watch a full-length documentary film about Sushi. Yes. You read that right. When I went upstairs and told AG it was lights out time, I said, “Daddy is watching a show about sushi.” His reply was, “Daddy watches awkward TV.”

Amen, son. Amen.

Anyway, so I started shopping. Here is a listing from the Pets section of Craigslist:

Hello this is Blue the bunny rabbit. We are finding him a home where he can be loved on and played with alot more than what he does now. He is a very sweet rabbit but needs the love and attention. I already have a male bunny rabbit and 2 males do not get along. So Blue will come with his cage, food bowl, and water bowl. I will also throw in a ziploc bag of food and some rabbit treats. There is a rehome fee of $50 and that includes everything I have listed. If anyone is interested please email me or call me at 8136446455. He will be a great pet for a child or just someone who loves bunny rabbits. Not for food.

This one made me laugh. I have a few comments:

  1. It is a LOT…not ALOT. Please, bunny rabbit owner and world at large…PLEASE hear me on this one. Alot is not a word. When you are saying a lot, you are saying a LOT, which is a group of items. OK? OK. Pheww.
  2. Is anyone else disturbed by the frequent use of the term “Bunny Rabbit” here? It’s very unnatural. I felt stuck in a really terrible family-oriented, low-budget cartoon that was designed to teach tooth-brushing habits.
  3. Rehome fee. What in the world is this really? I see it all the time. Call it what you will, it’s a PURCHASE PRICE. You can’t live with yourself if you sell your pet? Does the term “rehome” help you sleep at night?
  4. Not for food. That one made me laugh.

And here’s one I didn’t understand:

sexty cute doggie stroller…zebra (holiday)

used three times nice stroller…call ___________________

Is there such a thing as a sexty stroller or was that supposed to be sexy? Dog strollers are not sexy. They are stupid. So I am going to just assume that sexty is a word that means “weird.”

And then there’s THIS one:

Boa Collection (St.Pete)

I have several boas I am looking to rehome. It is not about the money however I am just wanting to pick up a different hobby.
Email for pictures.

There’s that rehome word again. It’s not about the money. Yeah, I’ll be it’s not. It’s about finally getting a real night’s sleep once the COLLECTION of life-squeezing vipers is gone. This dude is just looking to “pick up a different hobby” that can’t swallow his head whole.

Dude, try racquetball.

Brains that don’t work normally

.Reading time 2 minutes.

I have problems processing information through certain filters. Most people have a “that’s insane” filter that I struggle with. Even when a person who DOES have the insanity filter points out my own insanity, I still struggle to accept, or even recognize, what they are saying is insane.

Let’s set that aside for a moment.

I’ve been trying to lose 2oish pounds for 6 years now. Beloved came along and I gained the typical 18-25 pounds. Just as I was killing my gum-chewing habit and getting back on track, I found out there was going to be a fourth child. Beloved was bald headed and 9.5 months old when this news came. So I added the typical 18-25 baby pounds to the never-lost other baby pounds. And now I’ve just grown used to the whole thing.

I’ve had some minor successes over the years. These have become trapped under the more significant failures. I did well while on vacation a few weeks ago. But then I came home and ate Twinkies (stop judging) and Pringles (you love Pringles. You know you do.), as if I was trying to gain 8 pounds for a movie role.

But now, a new day is dawning. A day without Twinkies. A day where the Pringles are reserved for the children only. A day where water is imbibed.

And, a day with a long bike ride. 12 miles. I know that in the world of extreme sports, 12 miles is not a long ride. But when you’ve been living a Twinkie-laced lifestyle, a person with an insanity filter might question starting out at 12 miles. I have been questioned by the Informinator already. Her insanity filter works very well.  She didn’t actually tell me it was crazy. She just asked the question. Are you sure? Should you work up to? Do you know what you’re doing? Yes. No. Yes.

Boo-yah.

If I live through it, I’ll write later. If I don’t live through it, this will be a very awkward final blog.

I love everyone.

You guys are great.

All 18 of you.

Love Jesus. Live right. Wear a helmet.

When chickens are left to their own devices.

.Reading time 5 minutes.

I know he’s my kid and all and I’m sure this is just me, but I can’t stop cracking up at the triangle thing. You had to be there. Really.

I should be exercising right now. Or cleaning. Or doing laundry. But I’m not. Stop judging me. You aren’t doing those things either. You’re on your computer. We are the same. Except that you probably don’t have Price is Right going in the background. It’s embarrassing.

Anyway. Last night I came home from playing Trivia with some friends and wrote a blog. Then, in a moment of realization, my eyes got suddenly large as I looked up from my laptop and said to the husband, “Did anyone put the chickens away?” That was a stupid question. (There really IS such a thing as a dumb question.) No one puts the chickens up except for me. AG will put them away if I mention it. Beloved will, too. No one else cares about the chickens. So, of course, his answer to my panicked question was, “No.”

It was 10:15 and the chickens were still at large. So I donned the rubber boots, grabbed a flashlight, and went out into the night. It wasn’t long before T was out there, too.

As I started this process, I wondered to myself if the chickens might possibly put themselves to bed. The door was open to the coop. Might they just go in and get settled?

Nope. They are way too dumb for that.

Instead, four of them were 4 feet from the open coop door, huddled on top of the bunny hutch. Good grief. Come here, ladies. So, one by one, I picked them up and put them in the coop. But there were only four there. I was missing two chickens.

I was just slightly concerned when I started my search. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I went, though, because the missing hens were not in the usual places. I looked under the deck. Nothing there. I looked under the sycamore trees in the side yard. No chickens.

Shoot. This was my fault. I should have told the boys to put them to bed before going to bed themselves. I scratched my head and looked around again. Then I did a sweep with my flashlight. It landed on something. It was Goldilocks, perched very uncomfortably on the edge of a wire fence.  She bocked at me. It was a cry for help. Was she going to sleep there all night? I have no idea. I put the flashlight in my mouth and picked her up to carry her back to the coop. She was clearly relieved and said so as I set her on her perch with her 4 little friends.

There was still one missing. I stood inside the coop in the darkness, counting them over and over, hoping maybe I had miscounted or that one had just wandered in while I was occupied. We still had just the five. I started noticing all the feathers on the ground inside the open coop.

“Do you think something already got her?” I asked Todd.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “That IS a lot of feathers.” As we stood there together, deciding what to do next, there came a kerfuffle above us.

Plegonkinbgggggwwwkg.

bonk.

There on the ground was the missing chicken. We stared at this scene like you might stare if a chicken fell out of a space ship. It really was that strange.

We really don’t know where she fell from. Maybe the roof of the coop. Maybe a tree.

I made a fairly strong mental note not to forget the chickens anymore. I better get some eggs out of this deal.

There’s no such thing as a dumb question.

.Reading time 4 minutes.

Unless it is the one Mama’s Boy had to answer on his math homework this afternoon. Let me preface this by saying this: I love our school, our teachers, our administrators, and all things pertaining to all of the above. This post is directed at some dude named Bill that wrote this question on that particular day.

I was wearing rubber boots and standing in four inches of mud with a solo cup full of chicken mash in one hand when Mama’s Boy opened the back door and called out to me. He never just calls out. It is never a calm, stable, “Hey, Mom! When you have a second, I need to ask you something about my homework.” It is never that.

It begins in crisis mode. He goes from, Hmm, let me just read this question silently to myself to ACKWHATINTHEBLOOMINGDAYLIGHTSSHOULDIDONOWTHATICLEARLY WILL NEVERPASSELEMENTARYSCHOOLORHOLDDOWNAREALJOB???

He skips 19 stages to go from Hmm to despair. I can’t seem to talk him out of  all of that. So I diffuse when I can. When the door swung open this afternoon he spewed out an entire paragraph about how horribly hard this one question was before I could even respond to my own name. All I could say was that I’d be in after I liberated the chickens, who had been pent up too long from storms.

I went in. He was grueling over this one question.

To just bring you into the scene, I will post the picture I took of the question.

This is the THINK SOLVE EXPLAIN question. So, let’s look at this together. She cuts the square into two triangles. And Mama’s Boy has to explain how he knows they are two triangles.

There’s only one answer to that.

Because they are.

Because they are triangles. What do you mean, explain how you know? You just know. A triangle is a triangle. Red is red. Keens are awesome. Annie Lennox is the best female pop star of all time.

Well, clearly Mama’s Boy needed more than my boneheaded answer. Cuz. That’s what I said. Just cuz. That’s why. When that wasn’t going to cut it, I turned to the next logical source of information: Google. Let’s get the definition of triangle and explain it that way. How do we know it’s a triangle? Well, because it is a shape comprised of three angles. TRI angle. There, boy. Feel better? Say that.

He was staring at me. Blankly. A long pause passed between us before he finally said,”Why can’t I just write what I was going to write?”

Well, you can. Of course you can. For some reason, I got the impression you were desperately soliciting my help. Perhaps I misunderstood the spewing at the back door. No matter, boy. Go for it.

After that, I put back on my rubber boots and returned to the chickens.

Hours and hours passed and I found myself thinking back to today’s homework scene. I had just sat in on Trivia Night at Gator’s with a group of seriously smart pals and enjoyed a slamming first place victory. And all the brain juice flowing at that table (none of it mine) made me wonder what exactly the boy had said to explain how he knew that Maureen was dealing with two triangles. So when I got home, I pulled out his homework.

Well, duh, Bill. (that’s the dude that wrote this assignment…) Because each side has a big point.

I can’t wait to see what Maureen needs us to explain for her tomorrow.

Seriously. What are the odds?

.Reading time 1 minute.

This news story made me laugh. For the sake of one bear and a freaked out traveler, I probably shouldn’t laugh. But I did. Now you know what kind of a person I really am.

Man Swerves to Miss Moose and Hits Bear

(Newser) – An unlucky Norwegian man driving on a country road at night swerved around a moose in the road only to hit an even unluckier bear. Wildlife officials say the bear, one of only around 150 in the country, was injured in the crash, Reuters reports. They have found traces of blood indicating internal injuries and are trying to track the wounded animal. The car was damaged in the collision but the driver—and the moose—were unharmed.

What are the odds of you swerving to avoid a moose only to hit one of the 150 bears in the entire country?

That sounds like something I’d do.
If only I were brave enough to drive in the Norwegian mountains.
Or rich enough to fly across the pond.