A fool and her internet

I’m a sunflower.

Yep.  Oh yeah.  I am a regular ray of sunshine.  Facebook told me so.

The social media giant’s newest package of postponement is delivered as, “What kind of ________are you?  Take this simple quiz and find out!”

I found my floral identity this morning shortly after reading the DailyGood’s article entitled, “How to eliminate procrastination.”

By the by, according to another Facebook/Quiz Social questionnaire, the best tattoo for me is …wait for it … a human skull!  Yes, that’s right.  This little sunflower has a dark side.

Quiz Social zeroed in on my shadow personality and matched me perfectly with that symbolic representation of my cranky alter ego. 

The skull is suited to me, says Quiz Social, because it’s “bold and powerful.”  That is so me! 

I am the bold and powerful sunflower who declares her “opposition to the natural order of things and her unwillingness to be limited by anyone's rules or expectations.”

This nonconforming little blossom cannot be repressed. 

And this:  In the yin and yang yoyo of things, if I were a super hero, I’d be none other than Superman, the Goodie Two Shoes of the super hero set! 

And here’s how they reconcile the skull tattoo with the embodiment of truth, light and the American Way:  “Sometimes you are tempted to use your powers for evil, but lucky for the rest of us, you have a heart of gold.”  It’s me!  So very me!

                                                                       
In a past life I would have been an Egyptian queen, states the Department of the Obvious.

In the next life?  After I answered their quick quiz, the pronouncement came down – I’ll be reincarnated as … a single grain of sand?! 

Not sure I’m looking forward to that in quite the same way I was anticipating my return as a mountain lion or even redwood tree, or Empress of the Universe.
                                                    
But Quiz Social trots out none other than William Blake to make life on the beach with the masses seem Zen: "To see a world in a grain of sand ...  Hold infinity in the palm of your hand…"  OK…

Sensing the lack of enthusiastic response to such a gritty future, the quizmaster extrapolates, “There is nothing that separates us from the sand.  Nothing separates the sand from God.  We are all here.  We are all everywhere.  We are all forever.”

Oh brother!

I’m beginning to see the wisdom of Fred Stutzman, a 2009 graduate student at the University of North Carolina.  DailyGood reports that Fred had trouble concentrating long enough to finish the work for his thesis.  He blamed access to the internet.

Stutzman, like other people I’ve heard of, found himself distracted by the endless supply of sappy pastimes and useless but fascinating crapola at his fingertips — even when she, er, he really wanted to get something done.

Like any addict, he told himself he could disconnect any time he wanted to.  But it wasn’t that simple.  He tried aversion therapy and the ‘step down’ method.  He went cold turkey.  He wore the patch.

OK.  He didn’t do any of those things, but it was hard for him to look away from the screen.  No.  It was impossible. 

So he did what any red-blooded, skull-tattooed sunflower would do:  He went home and created a software program that would solve his problem.  Oh, I should have mentioned – Stutzman was a computer programmer studying Information Science.  

His creation, called “Freedom,” is simple.  All you have to do is turn the application on – after you pay your $10 – tell it how long you want to focus on something, anything other than the electronic pabulum you’re Jones-ing for and it blocks your computer from going online for that amount of time.  

If you have to have a fix before your time is up, you have to turn your computer completely off and reboot, which, in theory, is so much trouble you’d actually rather accomplish something you’re not ashamed of or embarrassed by instead.

I’m thinking of getting it.  Right after this last quiz:  What Tarot card are you?

Seven quick questions and…The Fool!?  I beg your pardon!

Halloween with the King

My husband quit wearing his pig mask.  For years he kept a full rubber headed, blunt-nosed, cigar-smoking pig mask near the door on Halloween.  When the tiny Tinker Bells and Bat Men approached in innocent anticipation and rang our bell, he’d rush into position; sweep the snouted face over his head, swing the door open, and growl.  What pig growls? 

The tiny trick-or-treaters, stunned mid-sentence, could only step back and stare.  Their parents would press forward just in case the need arose to swing into protective action.  But it was all in good fun, ha ha!  We kept lots of Snickers and Milky Ways in a large jack-o-lantern bowl, and never rationed the kids.  It’s the least we could do to compensate for the confusion.

Now, that mask, wadded up and stuck to its latex self, jams a corner in a box in the attic along with residual spider webs, my witch’s pointy hat, and a life-sized, glow-in-the-dark plastic skeleton.  It’s just as well. 

Our claim to Halloween glory, my husband’s and mine, was the year we won the costume competition dressed as “Pat.”  You remember Pat, don’t you?  The androgynous character from Saturday Night Live who creeped everyone out because you could never be sure:  Was Pat female or male? 

Pat had short-ish curly black hair; so we bought wigs.  Pat was heavy; so we padded ourselves – this was back in the lean days, you understand.  Pat had breasts, though it was never clear if these were man breasts or woman breasts; we incorporated accoutrements for the illusion. Black horn-rimmed glasses, matching blue plaid snap-button western shirts, Wranglers, and boots completed the ensemble.  

But the crowning touch was Pat’s wheezing, whining voice.  My husband perfected it.  He spoke for us both all night long.  The voice, and the self-caressing gestures that made the judges cringe, blink, and pull away as though they’d just inhaled a big whiff of yellow onion, secured the trophy. 

Aahh.  Those were the days. 

In my heyday, I dressed as Andy Rooney, the Living Dead, even punk rocker Sid Vicious – or at least someone he would have hung out with.  One of my students spiked my hair in what he called a “Statue of Liberty,” and lent me his heavy black leather jacket.  Ripped black nylon hose, chains hanging and safety pins everywhere; black lipstick and black fingernails.  Man that was fun. 

One year I wore a Superman costume complete with boots and cape.  I flew all over campus that year.  The kids loved it.  Not sure what my boss thought when I attended a meeting at the District Office in full Man of Steel regalia.  I felt powerful.   

I kept the full-body panther suit handy and wore it for many years, whenever the mood struck me, not just Halloween.  Where is it now?  No matter.  The moths have had their way with it. 

It’s not important.  The past few years, the number trick-or-treaters in our neighborhood have dwindled to single digits.  We still stock up on just-in-case candy, but wind up sending it to my husband’s office the next day.  The kids don’t visit houses anymore.  They wear store-bought costumes prescribed by Hollywood merchandisers and patrol stores downtown or at the mall, moving from merchant to merchant with their parents, working a pattern for maximum take, minimum interaction. 

Gotta be this way.  I understand.  Still… 

Gone is the excitement for a teenager, face painted, costume pulled together out of mom and dad’s closet, carrying his pillowcase, and running through the darkness with his friends, thrilled with the imaginary world that’s only open once a year.  This year, teens will dress like Snookie.  They’ll buy false six-pack abs and make like “The Situation.” 

Sigh.  

The next step in homogenizing Halloween?  Government takeover!  Connecticut lawmakers have a bill pending that will move the event in that state to the last Saturday of the month instead of the 31^st.  OK.  Why not?  Civilize it.  School nights.  I get it. 

But I’m not done.  I don’t have to give it up.  I’m not a kid.  And I still have an Elvis in me.  I’ve got a hankering to dress up like Elvis.  I know.  I should settle for Priscilla Beaulieu, but she’s just too easy.  Anyone can tease her hair into a rage and line her eyes with a magic marker.  

But Elvis.  Elvis!  Now that’s Halloween!