Social notworking

I've been rolling my eyes lately at social networking.

Yes, I have a graduate degree in technology. Oh, and yes, I have the equivalency of a second graduate degree in technology. Thus, I wholly support the ideology of teaching with an approach toward 21st century learning, focusing on collaboration, creativity, cooperation.

But I truly subscribe to the argument that social networking is hampering the interpersonal skills needed for healthy relationships and growth. Besides the obvious drama and horn-tooting, social networking consumes so much time that could otherwise be productive.

I've read enough research and conjecture that supports both sides, all of which makes me curious to see how this generation of digital natives will fare in the upcoming years. Already I see the communication and writing skills of students making a slow descent into an abysmal pit of poor dialogue and articulation.

Today, I just continued to shake my head at Facebook, which recommended a line-up of four "friends" for me--four people who clearly have no connection to one another, four people who will never be a part of my personal life.

The first is a student who wrongly slandered me. Enough said.

The second is someone who took advantage of people I love in numerous ways. Enough said.

The third is a person who committed a grave transgression against me. Enough said.

The fourth is Tyler, who can only continue to live through Facebook and memories. Enough said.

Only one of these four will ever be worthy of my time, and he's been gone for two years. That's how well Facebook knows me. If I could only click "dislike."

February foods

Brussels sprouts.

Who ever decided to pluck tiny cabbages and eat them?

Clearly, someone with a desperate stomach.

February marked my first dance--and probably my last--with brussels sprouts. Heck, I didn't even realize for the past 40-some years that brussels ended with an "s". Seriously. I always called them brussel sprouts. And no one corrected me. Probably because I never really discussed them since I've avoided them like I've avoided scallops (which by all means should be pronounced with a short a sound, quite unlike how Hot Tub Kathy pronounces them: "Scullups.")

I'm not sure what motivated me to to choose the sprouts, which old reliable (formerly known as wikipedia) describes as: "a cultivar of wild cabbage grown for its edible buds. The leafy green vegetables are typically 2.5–4 cm (0.98–1.6 in) in diameter and look like miniature cabbages." Wiki says that the total United States production is approximately 32,000 tons, with a value of $27 million.

That's a lot of cash for a cash crop that probably originated in ancient Rome, not Belgium.

Still, I figured this was a good time to try.

I paid about two bucks for a frozen bag of petite sprouts on Feb. 1 and procrastinated for nearly two weeks. Finally, on a day that I decided to do an all-out Sunday dinner, I threw a half-bag onto a pan and roasted them in olive oil and kosher salt. They looked pretty. They looked manageable. They looked like tiny buds of gastro-inconvenience.

Long-story-short: No one liked them. I managed to eat about six, hoping that they'd grown on me. Not quite. Kendall proudly boasted that she swallowed one, not bad for a 6-year-old who this month added mango smoothies, spicy turkey jerky, and garlic chicken to her new foods inventory.

Now I have a half-bag of brussels sprouts in the freezer. The next time someone needs a ice pack? I got it covered.

New Year's Resolution Part 1

I dislike resolutions, so I simply promised myself that for this year I would try a new food--something that I've never tasted before--each month.

Granted, there are foods that I've tasted but haven't eaten. Liver, for example. I know my mother prepared it when I was a child. And I remember sitting at the glass-topped kitchen table, forcing this wiggly sliver of meat into my mouth. I nearly cried. I couldn't stomach it. I probably tried to feed it to the dogs who sat beneath the table and stared up at us in starry-eyed wonder. So since I've attempted liver, I cannot add it to the list.

So I've been pondering what 12 food items to add. And for the first one, I took the easy way out: cookie dough ice cream. I've never tried, never wanted to try it. The idea of eating cookie dough takes me back to the 70s, the era of liver and onions, when my mother told me it was dangerous to eat the cookie dough.

Thus, why would we eat it in ice cream?

The thought churned my stomach. It gives me gag reflex.

But earlier this month, I caved it.

Oh, I could've tried other flavors that I never tasted: coconut, bing cherry vanilla, Snickers, party cake, cotton candy. But I decided to live on the edge.

I decided to eat two bowls in order to draw a firm and fair conclusion: Cookie dough in ice cream is wholly unnecessary. In fact, it's more than that. It's truly inappropriate.

The chunks of dough do, indeed, taste like dough. And dough--like my mother said--is meant to be baked, not eaten. I liked the ice cream around it, buttery smooth with little chocolate chips. But eating cookie dough -- even if it's not real cookie dough -- is akin to putting a used wet Band-Aid in your mouth. You just don't do it. Ever.

I have a feeling that next month's specimen will be even less satisfying: brussel sprouts. I'm already getting the chills.

Jan. 15

Today marks the birthday of my nephew, who is a wonderful young man. And I think of happy I am for him, hoping he thrives successfully throughout a long life.

But the date also marks the anniversary of Tyler's death. It reminds me of how fragile we are, how some people can live a near eternity and abuse this privilege called life. They are bitter, selfish, egocentric. Or they take advantage of their families, their friends, their opportunities.

And then there's Tyler, who truly made his mark in such a short time as truly giving, spontaneous, selfless, gregarious.

Buddy, your sudden passing still haunts me. So many times I hear boys in the hallways, and I swear you are laughing. So many times I see a mop of curly locks, and I am reminded of we were robbed of you too quickly. You left many hearts broken, my 10th grade son.

Too sudden, my friend. Too sudden.

A large serving of reality, but please hold the excuses

It's the holidays, and everyone wants them to be perfect. But in reality, they cannot always be quintessential, simply because the truth is that life will still go on despite presents and parties.

I remember working as a news journalist at The Morning Call when the publisher decided that the paper would now be printed on Christmas. Why? "Well, news doesn't stop for holidays," Gary Shorts announced. Well, neither does life.

And so maybe this has made me a bit more of a realist when it comes to the holidays. In fact, I always worked Christmas in the newsroom. I wasn't sure why until one year, a photographer - who just happened to be Jewish - walked by me on the morning of Dec. 25th and said: "Isn't it great? Just us Jews working together..." It was then that I looked around, realizing that the skeletal staff for the day was Tobias working the desk, the Fishers shooting film, Halperin manning the photo desk, and Youngwood and me making up the reporting staff.

Only problem: I wasn't a Jew, although someone in management thought I was.

Still, I welcomed the double-and-a-half pay of roughly $50 an hour. But the real gift was the opportunity to realize that, yes, news -- and life -- does not stop for holidays, as sacred as they may be, because I still had to cover fires, deaths, and suffering on Christmas.

And so this year, as one of my former student-athletes writes from his hospital bed while undergoing his third round of chemotherapy for leukemia at Hershey Medical Center, I remain amazed by the number of "grown-ups" who blog and post about their "difficult" situations during the holidays.

"It sucks to have a sinus infection on the holidays. This screws up my training. Bleh..."

"I'm exhausted from my kids, and I have too much going on..."

"I cannot seem to get out of bed to run... What can I do to motivate myself?"

Honestly.

Due to social networking, I am always surrounded by folks who run, bike, and swim. But sadly, I consistently trip over adult athletes either dishing excuses or seeking elixers.

Meanwhile an 18-year-old college freshman -- a competitive swimmer who has gone to states and knocks down a mile of freestyle in under 18 minutes -- sits in a hospital bed over Christmas break and apologizes for not being able to respond to phone calls and emails because the latest round of chemo has caused him to vomit, has depleted his energy, has left him with no desire to eat for his taste buds have burned out.

And as he fights for his own life, he still pulls for a 19-year-old Penn State student involved in a serious car accident, writing: "Gaby, McKean's had enough this year, I know you can pull through. Please stay strong."

So you pray that at 18, he can focus on his own strength until he writes this two days later: "An amazing PSU student passed away earlier this week, her dream was to trend on twitter; help make her last dream come true: RT #FlyHighGaby."

I saw this just an hour after I read the obituary of the 30-year-old mother who died in the hospital while giving birth to her second child the day after Christmas. Her death notice appeared next to the one marking the passing of a 17-month-old toddler whose parents wanted readers to know that Gaven "loved life, music, Elmo and Sponge Bob."

The truth is that there are too many adult athletes who become so self-absorbed in attempting to define (or perhaps defend) themselves that they use insignificant burps, such as a lapse in training or an achy ankle, as a chance to whine about the so-called complexities of life.

They allow the title of "runner," "cyclist," or "triathlete" to come before so many more things as they search for quick answers on how to motivate themselves, not realizing that motivation is truly intrinisic, that no one embraces a 4:30 a.m. run in 20-degree weather, that running until you feel the urge to vomit can be the reward of a tough tempo, that the majority of us were not born with the genetic gift of natural athletic prowess.

They want easy answers, and there aren't any.

And so when a well-educated person asked me this week for advice on how to write a blog so that he/she could be held accountable to a running plan, I had nothing to offer. If you haven't figured out how to be accountable to yourself in your 30s, blogging about it isn't going to make a difference.

Instead, what you really need to do is to belly up to a large serving of reality, open wide, and ask yourself: "Am I really facing adversity or suffering from a case of self-absorption?"

Learn that you are fortunate to have lived long enough to have loved or to have married, to have traveled, to have given birth, to have gained a career. Learn that there are people who are suffering more than your bad ankle, more than your asthma, more than your lack of motivation or lack of sleep during a hectic holiday week.

No one wants to hear trivial excuses.

These pretexts are nothing more than an annoying waste of time and a cry for attention. Instead, make it your resolution to learn to shut up, push yourself past comfort, and enjoy the fortunate ride you've been given--because not everyone can.

Because somewhere someone else has it far worse than your lack of motivation brought on by a plate of cookies or a long day of visiting relatives. There's someone who would gladly switch places with you.

Somewhere, there's an 18-year-old standout athlete -- and many more like him -- who learned early on that life is more than a record time in the pool. Life is temporary, precious. As he plods through treatment that has left him weakened, tired and vulnerable, he wishes for those "easy" days of swimming several miles twice a day that left him not nearly as exhausted as this training plan called "Leukemia."

A lot of grown, healthy adults with a lot of excuses can learn a lot from a kid whose time could end too soon.

I pray I'm wrong. Stay strong, buddy, stay strong.

Honey Badger

I love my friend Kristin's recent posting on Facebook: Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles -- NEVER question my commitment.

One of my commitments in life is to do as much as I can for myself and not rely on other people to do things for me. Do I ask for help? Certainly, but only after contemplating my options and thinking about a course of action to solving my dilemma or scoping out a situation.

So when someone recently asked me a question -- through an email sent through a phone (infer: tech savvy) -- that could be answered by a two-second Google search, it took everything within my power to not be a Honey Badger.

I wanted to reply: "You are a professional with college degrees asking me a question through email on your phone... can you not figure this out on your own? What is wrong with you?"

Honestly, people: Do the legwork yourself. You have to invest the time to reap the reward. You cannot truly appreciate things if they are given to you without some blood, sweat or tears. OK, maybe that's a little dramatic. But you have to at least invest the two seconds of time and then do a little research.

Speaking of blood, sweat, and tears makes me think of the person who wants to be a "marathoner" but doesn't want to run four days a week, who doesn't want to run a few 20 milers, who simply doesn't want to train yet still wants to put a 26.2-mile sticker on the car after walking a marathon.

Please.

You should've been in pain a few times during training. You should've sweated so much over 16 weeks that feral cats ran away. You should've worn through two pairs of shoes before earning the right to cry at the finish because you left all you had on the course physically and emotionally because you sacrificed time away from the comforts of the couch. But you didn't.

One of my favorite mantras is: "If you fail to prepare, prepare to fail." And so if you are too too lazy and you fail again? Well, Honey Badger don't give a crap because Honey Badger told you so.

And so this is Christmas.

We climbed the mountain. We conquered the tree. But not before we honored its life until the axe took her down. Oh, Christmas tree...