Since I turned my back on facebook, several friends and family members have tried to "talk me down from the ledge" as two of them have phrased it. They ask, "Why quit facebook altogether? Why not just moderate your time spent on it? Why is it always all or nothing with you?" Why indeed.
I am an all or nothing guy. I don't know why I am, but it is true. I just don't do things halfway. As a child, I wanted a guinea pig. My brother and I begged our dad to buy us each one and we promised to take good care of them. Our obsession faded quickly and when one day we discovered two cannibalized corpses of baby guinea pigs lying beside the cannibalized corpse of their mother, it became obvious that a profound lack of interest and attention may have contributed to their ultimate demise.
Back in the late '90s, I bought a bass guitar and played it for hours each day until I became pretty good at it. However, I eventually hit a wall where I ceased improving and ceased enjoying playing so I sold the instrument to a buddy and haven't picked one up since (although I have toyed around with a six-string on occasion.)
In 2000, I quit drinking alcohol cold turkey. I went from drinking a 12 pack or so every day to nothing- for two and a half years. However, I did resume my love affair with fermented beverages eventually and have managed to consume a moderate amount per sitting (for the most part) ever since. Maybe I can live in moderation. Maybe it doesn't have to be all or nothing with me. But honestly, I just have no desire to be on facebook anymore.
Please don't take it personally, folks. At the risk of sounding like George Costanza, "It's not you, it's me." I spent so much time on facebook that I ceased deriving enjoyment from it. It became an obsessive habit, probably like smoking is to some people, that just didn't satisfy me anymore. Can smokers continue to smoke "in moderation"? Probably. But should they? Just because you can do something doesn't mean you should, right?
At any rate, I hope my legions of fans understand where I'm coming from and continue to read my blog. I also hope that if you have pictures or stories about your kids or yourself that you feel are worth sharing with your facebook friends, you will feel free to email me those same things any time you care to. In the meantime, rest assured that I am no where near the ledge and I am doing just fine, thank you very much.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Friday, December 04, 2009
Past Due
UPDATE, December 7, 2:39pm: After posting the original "Past Due" story on my blog (below), I received a response from a customer service representative (CSR) from Reader's Digest. Through email, this individual explained that Mom had enrolled in the Continuous Renewal Service four years ago. The CSR apologized for any inconvenience and cancelled the account and waived the money owed without hesitation. I am very grateful and somewhat amazed by this unexpected, yet greatly appreciated gesture on the part of this kind and helpful person. Thank you Day Anne!
ORIGINAL POST: I received a collection notice from Reader's Digest today that was addressed to my mother, who has been dead for almost exactly one full year now, informing her that her subscription renewal balance is eight months past due. Does that mean she renewed her subscription four months after she died? According to Reader's Digest, yes. I have received several of these notices from the magazine publisher over the months since Mom's passing. I suppose I could have alerted them long ago that they stood no chance to collect, but the tact they took in trying to extract money from a dead woman pissed me off. So now we play.
It started shortly after Mom died. Reader's Digest automatically renewed her subscription, since they had not received a notice to cancel (In my experience, dead people usually can't be depended upon for picking up a phone or mailing a letter), and demanded payment. Each month I've received an "overdue" notice or a "we'll cancel your coveted subscription if you don't pay up" notice along with her other forwarded mail. Eventually, they stopped sending the magazine, yet have continued to try to collect the amount for a full year's subscription, despite having sent only two or three issues that were neither asked for nor read by the addressee (Did I mention she was dead?). The tone of subsequent statements became increasingly hostile and I resolved to jerk the chains of the idiots in the collections office for as long as they were willing to dangle them in front of me by never telling them that their delinquent subscriber has gone on to a better place (where magazines, Diet Pepsi, and Little Debbie Fudge Rounds are very likely free).
Today's notice took the cake. In gigantic bold letters at the top of the page it reads "OVERDUE BILL". Below those menacing words reads, "Subscription status: PAST DUE." Below that, le piece de resistance, "Previous attempts to collect: IGNORED BY Donna Keller." Don't you just hate it when dead people ignore you? I know I do. Do they think they're better than us? I mean honestly, the nerve of some of these corpses! Who do they think they are anyway? Do they think they're too good to stuff a check into an envelope (with perhaps a brief note of explanation- if not an apology) and mail it to the world's most beloved periodical ever to be read exclusively in bathrooms? I think somebody needs to take these stiffs down a notch if you ask me. At any rate, the letter goes on to say, "To change the status of your subscription, we must hear from you at once." Well, let me tell you, if they hear from my mother before I do, I'm gonna be pretty mad- especially if she doesn't call me or stop by or buy me something pretty or explain where she's been for the past year. Dead people. Can't live with 'em...
ORIGINAL POST: I received a collection notice from Reader's Digest today that was addressed to my mother, who has been dead for almost exactly one full year now, informing her that her subscription renewal balance is eight months past due. Does that mean she renewed her subscription four months after she died? According to Reader's Digest, yes. I have received several of these notices from the magazine publisher over the months since Mom's passing. I suppose I could have alerted them long ago that they stood no chance to collect, but the tact they took in trying to extract money from a dead woman pissed me off. So now we play.
It started shortly after Mom died. Reader's Digest automatically renewed her subscription, since they had not received a notice to cancel (In my experience, dead people usually can't be depended upon for picking up a phone or mailing a letter), and demanded payment. Each month I've received an "overdue" notice or a "we'll cancel your coveted subscription if you don't pay up" notice along with her other forwarded mail. Eventually, they stopped sending the magazine, yet have continued to try to collect the amount for a full year's subscription, despite having sent only two or three issues that were neither asked for nor read by the addressee (Did I mention she was dead?). The tone of subsequent statements became increasingly hostile and I resolved to jerk the chains of the idiots in the collections office for as long as they were willing to dangle them in front of me by never telling them that their delinquent subscriber has gone on to a better place (where magazines, Diet Pepsi, and Little Debbie Fudge Rounds are very likely free).
Today's notice took the cake. In gigantic bold letters at the top of the page it reads "OVERDUE BILL". Below those menacing words reads, "Subscription status: PAST DUE." Below that, le piece de resistance, "Previous attempts to collect: IGNORED BY Donna Keller." Don't you just hate it when dead people ignore you? I know I do. Do they think they're better than us? I mean honestly, the nerve of some of these corpses! Who do they think they are anyway? Do they think they're too good to stuff a check into an envelope (with perhaps a brief note of explanation- if not an apology) and mail it to the world's most beloved periodical ever to be read exclusively in bathrooms? I think somebody needs to take these stiffs down a notch if you ask me. At any rate, the letter goes on to say, "To change the status of your subscription, we must hear from you at once." Well, let me tell you, if they hear from my mother before I do, I'm gonna be pretty mad- especially if she doesn't call me or stop by or buy me something pretty or explain where she's been for the past year. Dead people. Can't live with 'em...
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Day One of Post-Facebook Liberation
This morning, Truman and I stopped by the Parents as Teachers room at the Southern Boone primary school for what is called "Drop in and Play." P.A.T. is an organization that provides helpful tips, developmental assessments, and support to parents of pre-school age children at no cost to the families. One service they provide is the opportunity for shut-ins like Truman and me to interact with other people "out in the world." You see, we don't get out much. Living 20 miles from Columbia and Jeff City leaves us with a long drive any time we wish to relieve our country-livin' induced cabin fever, so having a get-together at the school in Ashland (a very small town devoid of most forms of entertainment not involving cows and/or beer, but conveniently situated a mere three miles from our home) gives us something to do without making an hour's round trip into civilization.
As I sat in a metal folding chair observing my child NOT playing with the other children in the room, I discovered a book of advice for dads that was located on a bookshelf labeled "Parenting Resources." I thumbed through the pages while periodically peeking up to see whether Truman was having fun or bleeding to death. I saw no obvious indications of either scenario, so I continued reading. Eventually I found a passage in the book about toddlers at play that mentioned that they do not usually interact with other kids their age. They merely play near them rather than with them. Okay, I thought to myself, Truman is behaving normally for a child his age. Of course his being a Naughton prevents him from ever being truly "normal" however. (I admit that I didn't see that written anywhere in the book, but I'm sure it's true.) So if the kids aren't predisposed to play together, then I wondered why it was that we came to "drop in and play." It seems the appropriate title for the event should be "Drop in and watch your kid ignore other kids." If they would have called it that, then I would have known Truman was behaving normally without having to read it in a book. The only good parenting advice I ever read in a book suggested that when your toddler behaves in an outrageously infuriating fashion, the parent should pretend that their child is an alien born on another planet, unaware of how to behave appropriately here on Earth. Would you spank a Martian in the middle of Wal-Mart for refusing to put the family-size bag of gummy worms back on the shelf while screaming "You're killing me!" as you yank the contraband from his tiny alien fists? Of course not. You would simply say, "That's not how we act here on Earth. I don't know how it was back on your home planet, but that kind of behavior will not be tolerated in this galaxy, mister."
Even if Truman doesn't really play with the other kids, we will probably continue to "drop in and play" in the future. Living in total isolation here on Planet Naughton is probably not healthy for him. Take me for example. I've been holed-up here at the Hartsburg Hideaway for ten years now. Let's face it- "normal" is not the word you would likely use to describe me, is it?
PS: For the sake of my facebook friends, I will keep my fb account active so that my blog posts will automatically appear on my page. However, I will not check my messages or anything else, so if you wish to drop me a line, just email me. I'll be here. Or I may be in the P.A.T. room. Or I may be drunk and doing something with cows. At any rate, stay in touch.
As I sat in a metal folding chair observing my child NOT playing with the other children in the room, I discovered a book of advice for dads that was located on a bookshelf labeled "Parenting Resources." I thumbed through the pages while periodically peeking up to see whether Truman was having fun or bleeding to death. I saw no obvious indications of either scenario, so I continued reading. Eventually I found a passage in the book about toddlers at play that mentioned that they do not usually interact with other kids their age. They merely play near them rather than with them. Okay, I thought to myself, Truman is behaving normally for a child his age. Of course his being a Naughton prevents him from ever being truly "normal" however. (I admit that I didn't see that written anywhere in the book, but I'm sure it's true.) So if the kids aren't predisposed to play together, then I wondered why it was that we came to "drop in and play." It seems the appropriate title for the event should be "Drop in and watch your kid ignore other kids." If they would have called it that, then I would have known Truman was behaving normally without having to read it in a book. The only good parenting advice I ever read in a book suggested that when your toddler behaves in an outrageously infuriating fashion, the parent should pretend that their child is an alien born on another planet, unaware of how to behave appropriately here on Earth. Would you spank a Martian in the middle of Wal-Mart for refusing to put the family-size bag of gummy worms back on the shelf while screaming "You're killing me!" as you yank the contraband from his tiny alien fists? Of course not. You would simply say, "That's not how we act here on Earth. I don't know how it was back on your home planet, but that kind of behavior will not be tolerated in this galaxy, mister."
Even if Truman doesn't really play with the other kids, we will probably continue to "drop in and play" in the future. Living in total isolation here on Planet Naughton is probably not healthy for him. Take me for example. I've been holed-up here at the Hartsburg Hideaway for ten years now. Let's face it- "normal" is not the word you would likely use to describe me, is it?
PS: For the sake of my facebook friends, I will keep my fb account active so that my blog posts will automatically appear on my page. However, I will not check my messages or anything else, so if you wish to drop me a line, just email me. I'll be here. Or I may be in the P.A.T. room. Or I may be drunk and doing something with cows. At any rate, stay in touch.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Facebook vs. Blogger
I have become lazy. But it's not entirely my fault. I blame it on Facebook. The social networking site has occupied countless hours of my free time - time I could have spent writing my book or writing on my blog. Instead, I have regressed to the point of writing one-sentence blurbs meant to get a quick chuckle from my 405 or so Facebook friends. While these friends are important to me, I don't feel that I am doing them or myself any favors by avoiding the task I had outlined for myself many months (and really years) ago: writing a book. Facebook is a fine way to reconnect with old friends, but so is a 20 year high school reunion (which is coming up next summer.) What the hell will we talk about if we already know what everybody is up to via Facebook? I mean, I know what these people eat for dinner, what virus their kids currently have, and how many times they get drunk every week. (I can't keep track of all that in my own life, much less theirs.)
When I started writing this blog several years ago, it re-ignited a creative spark that had dimmed over time due to various factors such as work, kids, damaged brain cells, etc. My writing has evolved through the years and I have only recently felt comfortable referring to myself as a "writer." (I have not yet published a book, but I have had two stories published in a local paper that I was actually paid for.) My novel was coming along, but when it occurred to me that fiction writing is not (at least at the present time) the format for my voice, I took a break to regroup. I intended to get started right away on a collection of non-fiction essays (some of which first appeared on this blog), but that damned old Facebook just kept getting in the way. No more! In order to save my blog and my budding writing career, I feel that I must say goodbye to Facebook.
But how will we stay in touch?! I seem to recall that I was able to interact with friends and family before Facebook was invented through something called "email." (And the telephone and snail mail for that matter.) My address is linked on my blog and can be found on the info tab of my Facebook page. I will keep my fb account active for a while in order for my peeps to glean this info, then one day, without fanfare, I will cancel my account. If you enjoy reading my random thoughts, then save this blog (travisnaughton.blogspot.com) to your favorites list and check it often. I promise that you will get a lot more enjoyment out of my blog posts than you ever could from the inane fluff I put on Facebook.
Thank you to my dedicated blog followers who have not given up on me through these dark times. Your loyalty shall be rewarded. Special thanks to my cousin Larry, my uncle TK, my friend Ben, my mother-in-law Glee, and my writer-friend (and cousin-in-law) Jane for believing in me and encouraging me to keep writing. I won't let you down!
When I started writing this blog several years ago, it re-ignited a creative spark that had dimmed over time due to various factors such as work, kids, damaged brain cells, etc. My writing has evolved through the years and I have only recently felt comfortable referring to myself as a "writer." (I have not yet published a book, but I have had two stories published in a local paper that I was actually paid for.) My novel was coming along, but when it occurred to me that fiction writing is not (at least at the present time) the format for my voice, I took a break to regroup. I intended to get started right away on a collection of non-fiction essays (some of which first appeared on this blog), but that damned old Facebook just kept getting in the way. No more! In order to save my blog and my budding writing career, I feel that I must say goodbye to Facebook.
But how will we stay in touch?! I seem to recall that I was able to interact with friends and family before Facebook was invented through something called "email." (And the telephone and snail mail for that matter.) My address is linked on my blog and can be found on the info tab of my Facebook page. I will keep my fb account active for a while in order for my peeps to glean this info, then one day, without fanfare, I will cancel my account. If you enjoy reading my random thoughts, then save this blog (travisnaughton.blogspot.com) to your favorites list and check it often. I promise that you will get a lot more enjoyment out of my blog posts than you ever could from the inane fluff I put on Facebook.
Thank you to my dedicated blog followers who have not given up on me through these dark times. Your loyalty shall be rewarded. Special thanks to my cousin Larry, my uncle TK, my friend Ben, my mother-in-law Glee, and my writer-friend (and cousin-in-law) Jane for believing in me and encouraging me to keep writing. I won't let you down!
Monday, November 02, 2009
Gotcha Day
For anyone who has ever adopted, the day that you first met your child is celebrated just like a birthday. For many families, that day is called, "Gotcha Day" because that's "the day we gotcha." I am one of those lucky fathers fortunate enough to have both witnessed the birth of his biological child and experienced the joy of being handed his adoptive child after a long, long wait. Both events were life changing and more emotional than I could ever accurately describe.
As Alex was being born, on October 3rd, 2000, his heartrate dropped drastically while the doctor was trying to coax him out of his cozy little hideaway. Suddenly the medical staff leaped into action and as I was trying to soothe Bethany, my eyes met the panicked look on a nurses face. With no time to ease the baby out, the doctor abandoned her gentle and patient approach and basically yanked Alex into the world. It was not a beautiful moment. It was terrifying. For a while, he didn't make a sound, although his mama more than made up for that. Let's just say this: she used no anesthesia, and Alex weighed ten pounds. (I don't know how anyone can consider women to be the weaker sex.) A few breathless moments later, we finally heard a cry, and I was reduced to a quivering heap of sweat and tears. I whispered in Bethany's ear, "I never want us to go through that again. Next time, we're adopting a little girl from China."
Six years later and apparently unable to conceive another child, I remembered my prophetic statement in the delivery room. Bethany agreed that fate was telling us that we were not meant to bring another hungry mouth into the world. We would adopt. After two years of waiting for a baby girl, we found a picture of a beautiful, healthy two-year-old boy on our adoption agency's website. The listing included pictures of his left hand, which was missing two fingers and his left foot which was missing three toes. For these birth defects, he was abandoned on the side of the road by his birth parents and was found by a concerned stranger who then brought him to the local police station. After unsuccessfully trying to find his birth parents, he was brought to an orphanage where he spent the first year of his life with no mother or father to love him. He was lucky to be placed in a foster home after his first birthday where he remained for the second year of his life.
On Novemeber 3rd, 2008, we were escorted into a dingy room in an old government run hotel in Nanning, China. Along with our new friends Lisa and James Foard, who were adopting a beautiful five-year-old girl they would name Avery, we were told to sit and wait. "Whatever you do, don't cry. Crying upset babies," our translator/guide David warned us. We all knew we would fall to pieces when we saw our children for the first time, like any parent does when their child is born, but we resolved to be strong. Imagine laying eyes on your beautiful child for the first time, holding them, hugging and kissing them, but trying not to get emotional! Well, we somehow managed to hold it together when after an seemingly endless wait, a beautiful little boy was carried into the room and quickly handed straight over to Bethany. I think we both were so overwhelmed with emotion that we kind of had to go into "shutdown mode" to avoid breaking down in front of the child. We were trembling, but smiling and nodding when the "aunties" from the orphanage and the foster mother were telling us about our little bundle of joy. He was given the name Jiang Yizhan and was called "Zhan-Zhan" (which sounds kinda like "John-John"). We introduced ourselves to him as "Mama" and "Baba" (Chinese for Daddy). We had learned how to say "I love you" in the Chinese language course we had taken. "Wo a'i ni," (pronounced "whoa I knee") we told him over and over. "Baba a'i ni." Daddy loves you. "Baba a'i Zhan-Zhan." Then, "Ni shi Truman." (You are Truman.) Finally, we braved, "Baba qing-qing" (pronounced cheeng-cheeng) and "Mama qing-qing." Give daddy a kiss. Give mommy a kiss. And he did it! I will never be able to find the words to describe the joy that that first kiss gave me.
So here we all are, one year later, getting along as if Truman Jiang were born into this family. He's a Naughton thru-and-thru. Crazy, tempermental, funny, ornery. We love him as much as we love Alex. We know now that we were never meant to have another biological child. We were meant to fly halfway around the world and import the greatest item ever "Made in China." Happy Gotcha Day Truman. Baba a'i ni!
As Alex was being born, on October 3rd, 2000, his heartrate dropped drastically while the doctor was trying to coax him out of his cozy little hideaway. Suddenly the medical staff leaped into action and as I was trying to soothe Bethany, my eyes met the panicked look on a nurses face. With no time to ease the baby out, the doctor abandoned her gentle and patient approach and basically yanked Alex into the world. It was not a beautiful moment. It was terrifying. For a while, he didn't make a sound, although his mama more than made up for that. Let's just say this: she used no anesthesia, and Alex weighed ten pounds. (I don't know how anyone can consider women to be the weaker sex.) A few breathless moments later, we finally heard a cry, and I was reduced to a quivering heap of sweat and tears. I whispered in Bethany's ear, "I never want us to go through that again. Next time, we're adopting a little girl from China."
Six years later and apparently unable to conceive another child, I remembered my prophetic statement in the delivery room. Bethany agreed that fate was telling us that we were not meant to bring another hungry mouth into the world. We would adopt. After two years of waiting for a baby girl, we found a picture of a beautiful, healthy two-year-old boy on our adoption agency's website. The listing included pictures of his left hand, which was missing two fingers and his left foot which was missing three toes. For these birth defects, he was abandoned on the side of the road by his birth parents and was found by a concerned stranger who then brought him to the local police station. After unsuccessfully trying to find his birth parents, he was brought to an orphanage where he spent the first year of his life with no mother or father to love him. He was lucky to be placed in a foster home after his first birthday where he remained for the second year of his life.
On Novemeber 3rd, 2008, we were escorted into a dingy room in an old government run hotel in Nanning, China. Along with our new friends Lisa and James Foard, who were adopting a beautiful five-year-old girl they would name Avery, we were told to sit and wait. "Whatever you do, don't cry. Crying upset babies," our translator/guide David warned us. We all knew we would fall to pieces when we saw our children for the first time, like any parent does when their child is born, but we resolved to be strong. Imagine laying eyes on your beautiful child for the first time, holding them, hugging and kissing them, but trying not to get emotional! Well, we somehow managed to hold it together when after an seemingly endless wait, a beautiful little boy was carried into the room and quickly handed straight over to Bethany. I think we both were so overwhelmed with emotion that we kind of had to go into "shutdown mode" to avoid breaking down in front of the child. We were trembling, but smiling and nodding when the "aunties" from the orphanage and the foster mother were telling us about our little bundle of joy. He was given the name Jiang Yizhan and was called "Zhan-Zhan" (which sounds kinda like "John-John"). We introduced ourselves to him as "Mama" and "Baba" (Chinese for Daddy). We had learned how to say "I love you" in the Chinese language course we had taken. "Wo a'i ni," (pronounced "whoa I knee") we told him over and over. "Baba a'i ni." Daddy loves you. "Baba a'i Zhan-Zhan." Then, "Ni shi Truman." (You are Truman.) Finally, we braved, "Baba qing-qing" (pronounced cheeng-cheeng) and "Mama qing-qing." Give daddy a kiss. Give mommy a kiss. And he did it! I will never be able to find the words to describe the joy that that first kiss gave me.
So here we all are, one year later, getting along as if Truman Jiang were born into this family. He's a Naughton thru-and-thru. Crazy, tempermental, funny, ornery. We love him as much as we love Alex. We know now that we were never meant to have another biological child. We were meant to fly halfway around the world and import the greatest item ever "Made in China." Happy Gotcha Day Truman. Baba a'i ni!
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