This story has been waiting a long time to be written. Lurking, wanting it’s turn.
It’s a tragic and even macabre tale. Not one I like to readily recall. The memories have slowly started to fade, but certain smells will bringing them rushing back, vivid and raw.
Most horror stories start with “It was a dark and stormy night…”
But it wasn’t dark or stormy or night. Completely the opposite. It was a cool, crisp, early morning on March 10, 2006. The skies were clear, but it was cold enough you could see the exhaust coming from the vehicles.
A morning of pure ordinariness. Except, over three years later, I can tell you the jacket I was wearing that day. It was a black and white ski jacket. It was warm. I liked the pockets designed into it because it was handy for the equipment I needed to carry for my job. My job… supervisor at a diesel locomotive facility. That’s where I was headed that morning. It was early. Maybe 5 or 6am? I don’t remember the exact time. But it would have been very early.
I drove the back roads, a secondary highway, then made the turn to get onto the main highway that would take me all the way into the city, to work. The turn off to get onto the main highway was dangerous. You had to cross southbound traffic and then merge into the northbound lanes. There were no lights or anything to help with this. You just had to pay attention and time it right.
But that morning someone wasn’t paying attention. Or maybe he was. I don’t know. All I know is I pulled up to the turn to the sound of shredding metal, an explosion, fire. I crossed and parked on the meridian. A woman was standing on the side of the road, already on the phone with emergency services. I pulled her back as she almost stepped into oncoming traffic in her distress. She kept repeating “I saw it. I saw it happen. Why? Why didn’t he stop?”. I helped her into her truck and told her to stay there and wait until the police got there.
I saw them pulling someone out of the truck. There was fire. So much fire. The truck was engulfed in flames where it had collided with the semi trailer and both had gone into the ditch. From my work with diesel locomotives I knew I was smelling burning diesel fuel. And something else. Grass? Burning grass? I found out later the semi was filled with hay. And the sickly sweet smell of the burning hay was what I was smelling.
I ran to the man they had pulled out of the truck. Young. Early 20’s I guessed. The men had stopped, risked their own lives, to pull this man out of his burning vehicle. They were screaming for help. As I neared they turned to me with a plea “Do you know CPR? He’s not breathing?”
Years of first-aid training never prepares you for this moment. I felt like I had been punched. Then felt the rush of adrenaline. I knelt down beside him. I could smell his cologne. It was the same cologne my brother wore. Mingled with the smell of singed hair and flesh. And blood. Lots of blood. I checked for vitals. Not breathing. No heartbeat. I tasked one of the men crouched around me with starting chest compressions. As I counted for him I watched another group of men frantically working to free the driver of the semi.
“One and two and three and four and one”
“…..He’s alive and awake….his legs are pinned…. “
“and one and two and three and four and two”
“….crowbar… someone get a fire extingiusher… “
“and one and two and three and four and fifteen”
I leaned down to to breathe. Dammit. Gurgling meant it had gone into the stomach. Readjusted his head and tried again. I felt the resistance as I forced air into his lungs.
“One and two and three and four and one”
“…goddammit where are the fucking police….”
“One and two and three and four and two”
“….fuck, run! Run! It’s going to blow….”
“One and two and three…”
and explosion as I watched in horror as the cab of the semi exploded in flames. The men who had been trying to free the trapped driver stood silent and shocked hands on their heads, covering their faces. The tears making tracks on their soot stained faces.
I swallowed and swallowed again willing myself not to be sick, blocking the smell of burning, pushing the scene out of my mind and turned back to the man laying in front of me.
“We have to move him. We’re too close to that truck. If the whole thing goes up, we’re going to be right in the path”
The men worked together to pick up and move the truck driver further down the ditch.
I positioned his head. Breathed. Gurgling. Repositioned. Breathed. More gurgling. Fuck! Fought back tears and panic. Repositioned again. Breathed. Sweet resistance. More counting. More breathing. More counting. Sirens. More sirens. Ambulance. Police. Fire.
A paramedic came over. She told us to stop. Checked for a pulse. Told us there was nothing more we could do. His internal injuries would be to great. Someone covered him with a yellow tarp. The took us into the ambulance to decompress and warm up.
I looked down at my hands. I was covered in blood. Smears of it on my jacket. More on my face where I had given him CPR.I would later go home and wash the jacket over and over and over. Even though there were no more blood stains on it after the first wash, I could never bring myself to wear it again and threw it out.
The paramedic lectured me about doing CPR without a barrier. Yes. I knew the risks. Yes. I did it anyways. We were told next time not to bother. When it’s an accident like that, nothing can be done. They don’t even bother trying. But I knew that I couldn’t have stood by and done nothing.
Years earlier my brother, the one who wore the same cologne as the man who was now laying covered by a yellow tarp, had been in a horrible accident. He was mangled and not breathing. Someone gave him CPR. Someone ignored the blood covering his face and did what they felt needed to be done. Because they took that risk, my brother is still here.
It’s been three and a half years. I could still draw you a picture of the man who died in front of me. A whiff of cologne from a passing stranger will flash his face with startling clarity to the front of my mind, as if I was looking at a photo of that day.
This is not my story, though. This is about two men, who’s names I don’t know, who died in a ditch on a cold March morning. It’s about their families. Their loss. If that was my brother, son, father, I would want to know that, even though they died, someone at least tried to help them, instead of standing by and saying ‘not my problem’. I would want to know that people put aside their self absorbed worlds for 5 minutes and tried to make a difference. Because, really, the thought of someone dying, alone, while people stood by and watched, is the worst horror story I can imagine.
I’ve tried looking for the names of the men or a news write up of the crash. I haven’t been able to. Perhaps it was because it was a turn that was the site of many fatalities. Perhaps too much time has passed. All I could find is a small note on an article about the overpass that was built a year later at the site of the accident.
March 10, 2006
A pickup truck travelling east from Highway 7 to Highway 547 crosses into the path of a semi-trailer in the northbound lanes of Highway 2, just north of Aldersyde. Both drivers are killed in the fiery crash.
The new brand of quasi-celebrities. Bloggers. We put our lives out there. Share our thoughts, our spouses, our children. Share our highs, our lows, our successes, our failures. Share who we went out with, who we saw, who we talked to, who we talked about. Share where we went, where we want to be, who we want to be.
We put it all out there for complete strangers to read. And these strangers slowly become a name recognized out of the comments, an acquaintance, a friend.
We invite these people into our lives, saying look at me, this is who I am. Look and see what I stand for, what I stand against, what I won’t take sitting down.
But there is a price we ask in return. We want love and adoration. We need support and comfort.
And the more we crave, the more people we invite, allow, entice with our writing, into our inner circle. And as this inner circle grows and flourishes so does our power.
We become mentors, leaders, masters of our domains.
But, so it is said, with great power comes great responsibility.
With but a few words we can whip our zombie hoards into a frenzy and unleash them on some unsuspecting target. They will do our dirty work and destroy and demolish. Those who stand in our paths will be silenced.
Except…except…what happens when it’s not mindless zombies we unleash, but emotional beings. Capable of rational thought. And what happens when these people stop, amidst the chaos they help caused, and turn to look over their shoulder at the person who directed the rampage. And what happens, when as one, they turn and bring the chaos back to our own doorstep.
As bloggers we not only need to own what we say, what we think, what we do personally, but accept the power we hold and wield. Accept ownership, accept responsibility for those people who look to us and are willing to stand up for us. Accept that we have the power to use this for good AND for evil and that the two are sometimes not so black and white, as much as shades of gray. Accept that when people do things at our behest, on our behalf, we wholly own part of the responsibility for those actions.
IF we are not willing to accept and own this responsibility, then we cannot be surprised when people turn on us in anger and disappointment at our failed leadership.
I love awards. I really do. They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside (it has nothing to do with the Hot Peppermint Patty I’m drinking).
So when Heather, over at The Adventures of Crazy Mum told me she was giving me this award, it just made my day!
Here are the rules for receiving the award:
- Present this award to 7 others whose blogs you find brilliant in content and/or design, or those who have encouraged you
- Tell those 7 people they’ve been awarded the HONEST SCRAP AWARD and inform them of these guidelines in receiving the award.
- Share “10 Honest Things” about yourself.
Here are “10 Honest Things” about myself
- I’m terrified of moths. I have no problem with butterflies. Yes, I know they’re essentially the same thing. But a moth in my house is cause for a complete freak out. (it’s funny to watch, trust me)
- I know how to cross stitch, and actually enjoy doing it. (don’t judge)
- I used to really like my nose, but ever since a training accident involving the top of my dogs very hard skull connecting with (and crushing) all the lower cartilage in my nose, it’s just not the same. I’ve even considered a nose job just to correct it because I am that vain. But then I’d end up getting lipo, and a boob lift, and maybe a bit of a neck lift, and, and, and, …. yeah, so I’m not getting my nose done. But I still blame the dog.
- I have held my daughter down while she screamed through all sorts of medical procedures. Even though I know they’re necessary, I makes me feel like an awful mom and I often wonder if it’ll effect her trust in me.
- I’ve never been on a cruise or to Europe. I really want to do both.
- I have, however, traveled past the Arctic Circle. I’d rather go on a cruise.
- I love the taste of kiwi’s but never eat them because the texture grosses me out.
- I prefer game meat to beef. A vegetarian I will never be.
- I’m honest to a fault. I will always tell people what I think. This has lost me friends. I can’t (wont) change who I am though. If you really don’t want to know how I feel, then don’t ask.
- I know I come across as a complete bitch some a lot most all the time. I know I’m intimidating to a lot of people. Really? My bark is worse than my bite.
Now to pass this on… I choose to torture honor:
- Colleen at Messponential. She amazes me how she stands by her convictions
- Lu of Jaded Perspective. I hope one day my writing is as raw and inspiring as hers.
- PsychMama. Because she understands what it is to have a daughter with developmental delays (and because, dude, you really need to update your blog. lol)
- Becky of Life out of Focus. I love watching her photography evolve as she does
- Ali of My Life With Them. Because she’s having a craptastic day, and I know getting this award made my day.
- Cara of Momma Says. Her stories about her kids make me snort out loud in a really unattractive way, but I still love her
- Kate of Tati Kate. I’m hoping I can learn sensitivity from her as I learn how to knit.
UPDATE: Entries are now closed! I’ll be back shortly with the winner!!
UPDATE#2: Allowing for 2 commentors who left an extra comment each, which brought the actual number of entries to 55,
Here are your random numbers:
Timestamp: 2009-10-24 01:05:32 UTC
Which means the winner is Colleen!
Congrats Colleen, you are going to LOVE this!!
Thank you to everyone who entered!
I am soooo over this past week.
The whole internet seems to be one giant BLAAAAH
So, cheer up. I have a giveaway! YAY!
That’s right, my very first one.
If you follow me on Twitter, then you’ve probably seen my tweets about Tassimo Canada giving away free Tassimo machines. If you thought it was yet another internet hoax, you guessed wrong. Mine was delivered by a very nice FedEx driver this morning.
Bil and I have been Tassimo die-hards for the past few years. Take away my microwave, but lay a finger on my Tassimo and I will seriously take you out. So went the newest model came out, we went out and bought it immediately. Again, very happy with our purchase.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago and the Tassimo Canada giveaway. I contacted them and said “Hey, I already have a Tassimo, but I’d love one to give away to my awesome blog readers! So, can I have one?”. They came back with “Is it a contest?”… huh? what? nope. “Are you going to use it to collect information from your readers?”…. ahhh, a negative on that one too. “Then go for it”.
Which means one of you lucky people is getting a shiny new Tassimo coffee system!! But it’s not just coffee. Espresso, hot chocolate, tea, lattes, cappuccino, chi tea lattes, the list goes on. I love it for company. Everyone gets exactly what they want.
- STARBUCKS® House Blend
- NABOB 100% Colombian
- NABOB Espresso
- NABOB Cappuccino
- NABOB Latte
- NABOB Breakfast Blend
- MAXWELL HOUSE Decaffeinated
- TWININGS Chai Tea Latte
- TWININGS Green Tea
These aren’t ‘sampler packs’ either. They are the full size packages you buy in the store.
So now the good part – How to win.
Let’s keep this simple, because my brain is sort of fried this week.
Head over to Tassimo and visit their Recipe page and tell me what recipe you’d most like to try in the comments below. One comment per person.
That’s it. Easy.
The winner will be drawn using a Random Number Generator. Entries close Friday, October 23, 2009 at 7pm MST
Ready? Go!**Full Disclaimer: This Tassimo Coffee System was given to me by Tassimo Canada during a marketing promotion they had. I’ve received no other compensation**
UPDATE: I’ve closed comments on this post. I don’t feel anything more can be said that hasn’t already been said, and rehashing events we have no control over serves no purpose at this point.
I spent most of the day attached to my computer and Blackberry, fielding the same question over and over and over and over. Email, DM, chat, phone calls. But I couldn’t answer it. Because it was the same one I was asking myself.
I still don’t know the answer.
It’s so hard when you want so badly to believe something and you can’t.
I am disappointed. I am hurt. I am wondering why someone who called herself my friend reached out to everyone but me, despite my attempts to reach her by email and phone.
I would have backed her up, if there was something to back up. And perhaps that is the crux of the matter. She knows me well enough to know I don’t follow blindly, friend or not. I question everything. Just part of my nature.
Why would the TSA spend that much time and effort digitally altering a video? (Those of you who think you can take video, with the quality of CCTV, magically alter it have been watching too much CSI)
If the video was somehow altered, where are the tears? The hysterics? The sobbing? Can they magically change faces to show a calm person instead?
How someone who has completely destroyed their knee and is taking Vicodin for the pain can walk without a limp, and stand with a baby on your hip and all the weight on that leg.
These are questions I need answers to before I’ll be able to change my opinion.
And this is exactly that. My opinion. I own it. And I stand by it.
It doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it, though. It doesn’t mean I have to like it. It doesn’t mean I don’t desperately wish there was something that could make me believe otherwise.
**If you have no idea what this post is about, trust me when I say you don’t want to. Just walk away and forget you ever read it**
We’ve all been through stuff with our family when we just needed to vent and get it all out there. Unfortunately, if you have a public blog that your family knows about, it’s not always the best place to do it (unless you want to cause a lot of family tension, drama, headaches…)
So when my good friend Lu told me she needed a place to ‘throw her dirty socks around’, I told her to come on over and let it all out. I have enough dirty laundry posted on this site; what’s a few more socks?
After reading her story below, I can totally understand why she would need to get this off her chest and blow off some emotional steam.
So, without further ado, the lovely Ms Lu….
So I got the call yesterday. the call that I was expecting to get actually. It’s funny how just because you expect a situation or manifest it in your mind, it doesn’t make it any easier to deal with or understand.
My brother and his wife are expecting.
After giving two other children up for adoption.
****Some history is probably in order.****
My brother, G was in 10th grade when my parents moved our family (not me I was already out) from our home town to a new state. For a high school student something like that can be hard and for my brother it was the beginning of the end. Without 5 pages worth of information to say it shortly my brother is a hippie, a drifter, a musician, a dreamer, not much of a do-er. He met A, his now wife, a few weeks after starting school in the new town. They began dating and also an intimate relationship, rather quickly. A was actually there the morning some of my family died, and was caught “fleeing the scene of the crime” which of course, she was cleared of any wrong doing. Well, except she was 15 and had no business being in my brother’s room overnight. (Letting your HS son have a room in the basement was NOT the best idea Mom, shit.) Given that she has been with my brother through all of this they have an unbelievable bond, which I can understand. They also really love each other and always have.
When they were just finishing their senior year of high school A got pregnant. When this happened I think it was just over a year after dad and the boys died and the prospect of a new baby brought a swirling of emotion to our family. We (mom, me, hubs, and sis) said we would back them, help them, and support them emotionally and financially. For a while there they had decided they would marry and keep the baby. My brother was entertaining ideas of joining the military so he would have a way of immediate support and medical care. We said we would support whatever they decided. Then A’s family started convincing her that this baby was going to ruin her life and had she even considered any other options? Her mother made her go to a meeting with an adoption agency and shortly after that they decided she would give the baby up, to an open adoption. So G & A could pick the family and have some involvement in the baby’s life.
Now I can not even begin to imagine what this feels like. Especially now as a mother myself the emotions are a thousand times more intense. I can not imagine how hard it is to carry the child full term and give her away. At the time this was really hard on our family. Especially my mom. Who was immediately accused of “trying to replace her sons.” Anyone who is a parent knows that if you lose a child they can NEVER be replaced. Just typing that out makes my stomach turn. You can not replace a child, even with another child of your own, much less someone else’s child. It is not possible. Yet they accused her of it. Repeatedly, because she wanted them to keep the baby. I was just supportive of whatever they wanted to do because I was young myself and although I was married I wasn’t “ready” for a baby either. However I really struggled to understand how G & A could honestly let the baby go. They both come from decent families who would have helped them through and teach them and support them. But they were both in the time of their life where freedom was finally theirs and ultimately the baby would cramp their style.
G finally let me in on his view. Since they were working with this open agency they would be able to see her and have some involvement, but still get to be kids themselves. The agency would also be paying them enough money that him and A could move out on their own. So not only would they not have the “burden” of the baby, they would be able to get some free money. From the agency AND the adoptive parents. The agency & adoptive parents paid their rent and utilities and any other expenses to make sure their baby would be in the best healthy environment possible. G & A were “hood rich” and loving it. At this point they pretty much quit communicating with us for the most part, but especially in regards to the baby. They felt guilt or ashamed I guess. I don’t know.
So a beautiful little girl was born. A little girl who I have never met. A little girl who not only has my blood running through her veins, but also strongly resembles me.
G & A went on with their lives which includes a horrible cocaine addiction and a stripping career. Two years went by and A gets pregnant again. Oh and guess what? The adoptive parents of the first child would just love to adopt this one too. So yeah, my brother and his wife basically sold them the baby. It was through the agency…but still, we all saw what was going on. I never came out and called him a baby seller to his face, but we a knew it. It was just too painful to address correctly especially with still feeling the pain of losing the first one. So here we go again. Except this time, the never even considered keeping it. Ever. He later admitted to me that the adoptive parents had been asking for months for another baby.
Fast forward a few years and G & A get their life somewhat on track. They aren’t hooked on drugs anymore (just a little lot of pot) and decide it’s time to get married. I mean they have been together forever anyway so why not. Soon after they figure out another way to get free money, school grants and loans. They rack up thousands of dollars in loans only to have that idea fizzle out as well. They both struggle to maintain school, jobs, and their hugely important social life. Soon after the money runs out they find themselves in despair once again.
Once again my mom opens her arms and home to them. During that time they are trying to figure out what the hell they can do with their life now. They literally have nothing left but some personal belonging and each other. So how can we get money again??? HMMMM. This time it was the military. During a time of war. They are so desperate to get something for nothing. So A joined but G was denied. A has worked her butt off, and it turns out, it wasn’t something for nothing. I will give her credit for that, for sure. All along though, I just keep wondering what kind of scheme they will come up with to get her out. So the first thing they did to keep her from getting deployed was sign her up for bunion surgery. Then they tried to deploy her again, so she signed up to have her other bunion removed. They were here for a weekend in between the surgeries. During a casual conversation about what would happen after that, how long she would recover before being deployed my brother pipes in with, “well if she gets pregnant, she won’t be deployed.” AH HA.
So it begins, again.
So now you are caught up.
She went in yesterday for her second surgery only to find out she is pregnant. My brother called me and said, “I am going to be a father.” My natural reaction/response was, what does this mean? He was like, what do you mean, what does this mean? It means I am going to be a father. Of course I am thinking, um, you already are, so what the fuck does this mean??? Now I never said, so are ya keeping it? I guess he just thinks I am supposed to know they are. I mean, what is different now that I am supposed to be anymore happy about this than the last two times you “were going to be a father.”
My mom and I are literally afraid to get invested. Afraid to get excited. Afraid to love.
We have been beat up emotionally a million and a half times by my brother and his wife. For way more than the two other babies. G & A are the type of people who if you piss them off they will use this baby as a pawn to get what you want or make you feel bad. I am so afraid.
I am afraid for the other two babies to ever feel like they came from a family that didn’t want them, but then we wanted this baby. We wanted those little girls, they were loved before they were ever born. We would have loved them forever.
I know that my brother can be an amazing father. I just hope he follows through this time.
I woke up this morning at 8am. Which counts as sleeping in for me. I should have been able to bounce out of bed and hop in the shower. Instead I slowly dragged my ass out of bed, thanked the magical furnace for the fact my room wasn’t freezing for a change, and resisted the urge to start banging my head against the wall when I realized V was awake and wanting to get up.
That urge to bang your head when you’ve been awake less than 2 minutes is NEVER a good sign. But it’s a big sign for me. You see, I live in this fantasy world. A world of happy fairy dust. That would be the same world where I convince myself that I’m feeling so great I don’t need my anti-depressants anymore. Because, I’m doing better again. I obviously just needed more sleep. I wasn’t depressed after all. And so I don’t need to take that little pill once a day anymore. Because I. am. doing. AWESOME.
- Day One
- Feeling great! I’m on top of the world. Told you I didn’t need those stupid pills. Just more sleep. Sleep is GREAT! I’m GREAT! YAY ME!
- Day Two
- Hmmm… seem to be having a bit of an off day. Maybe I’m coming down with something. I just need some more coffee. Oooo… and chocolate. And maybe some Skittles. Cause who doesn’t love Skittles? And maybe just a bit more coffee. Definitely coming down with something. That must be it. But I. am. GREAT!
- Day Three
- You want me to get out of bed? Are you fucking kidding me? And if those god damn dogs don’t start barking I’m going to turn them into to fucking fur coats. Bark collars all around. That’ll fix you little bastards. And those fucking cats need to shut the fuck up. Oh great. No cat food. Dammit. Compose note to Bil telling him he better bring cat food home or I would chop him into little pieces and feed him to the cats. Cause really? How fucking hard is it to see we’re getting low on cat food and get more before we completely run out and the cats are meowing, meowing, and they won’t shut the fuck up and if his cat tries to chew that god damn plastic bag one more time I’m going to seriously shove my foot up her ass and use her as a slipper because she’s not good for much else. Re-read email. Edit it to ask Bil to pick up cat food on the way home. Hit send. Make Vista some breakfast. Ego waffles is about all I can manage this morning. Breakfast of champions. Someone give me a ‘Mommy of the year’ award. Put on Super Why for V and check the clock every 5 minutes to see if it’s time for her to go down for a nap yet. Get pissed off and yell at her to pick up her crayons after she throws them all over the room. Get pissed off and yell at her after she brings me her sippy cup and demands I take the lid off for the 18th time. Get pissed off and yell at her after she refuses to let me change her diaper. Get pissed off and yell at her after she goes to her blackboard in the kitchen and starts running her fingernails down it and wont stop. Get pissed off and yell at her after I tell her to get the fuck out of the kitchen and she lays down and throws a temper tantrum and I pick her up and bodily move her to the living room and slam the gate to the kitchen closed *insert a lot of screaming from both of us here*. Realize I am completely losing it. Make her a bottle and tell her to go to bed. Freak when she tries to climb into my bed. Pick her up, put her in her crib with her bottle, close the door. Go to my computer, turn on Twitter, send this tweet
Put the computer down, go into the bathroom and take my little pink pill. The one that makes me sane again. Then cry, and cry, and cry. Cry for being stupid enough to think I could go off of them. Cry because I hate having to take them. Cry at the realization that this is not going to change. Cry.
Cry because it only takes 3 days to prove how wrong I was. Three days to go from happy, great, awesome, loving life, to ‘I wonder what would happen if I just took the whole bottle’. Yeah. Three days between sanity and the fact I should probably be in a padded room. Three days between peace, calm, and happy harp music, to a rage so fierce I don’t know where it comes from and it scares me.
I woke up this morning and thought about blogging and wondered what to write about. I realized I had nothing to say and decided, maybe tomorrow. Then my brain imploded. If I could have picked my own topic, this wouldn’t have been it. I don’t like telling the world that there are days when I’m a crappy mom and a shitty wife and just generally a miserable person. I don’t like waving the “I take meds in order to pretend I’m somewhat normal” flag. But I do it because I know I’m not the only one. I know there is going to be someone else that reads this, goes to the cabinet, takes their meds, and realizes that *they’re* not the only ones. And that’s why I write.
PS. Bil, could you pick up some more Halloween candy on your way home? I may have cleaned out our stock of Reese peanut butter cups and Oh Henry bars this morning. Sorry about that.
- Answer the questions below using only one word
- Thank the blogger who gave it to you
- Pass it on to 6 of your favorite bloggers
Now the questions:
- Where is your cell phone? couch
- Your hair? straight
- Your mother? interesting
- Your father? strict
- Your favorite food? pizza
- Your dream last night? didn’t
- Your favorite drink? wine
- Your dream/goal? royalty
- What room are you in? family
- Your hobby? scrapbooking (don’t judge)
- Your fear? drowning
- Where do you want to be in 6 years? retired (it’s the freedom 40 plan)
- Where were you last night? home (yeah, OK, I’m boring. Deal)
- Something you aren’t? skinny (and this smothered baked potato I’m eating isn’t helping that fact)
- Muffins? chocolate
- Wish list item? Ferrari
- Where did you grow up? Calgary
- Last thing you did? tweeted
- What are you wearing? clothes (sorry to disappoint)
- Your TV? big
- Your pets? several
- Your friends? geeks
- Your life? busy
- Your mood? happy
- Missing someone? Always
- Vehicle? truck (I am a redneck)
- Something you’re not wearing? socks
- Your favorite store? etsy
- Your favorite color? green
- When was the last time you laughed? morning
- Last time you cried? September
- Your best friend? Missy
- One place that I go over and over? bed
- One person who emails me regularly? mom
- Favorite place to eat? Castiron
Now for the fun part – this is where I torture my friends and force them to play along:
Dear Twitter follower.
When calling yourself a ‘Social Media Consultant’ it’s helpful to have more than 100 followers on Twitter to back up your claims.
After all, I’m just a stay at home mom and I have over 800 followers (some of them actually real people even… I think). So what does that make me? A Social Media Guru Extraordinaire? No, I didn’t think so.
Your web designs are lovely. And I appreciate the fact you have a strong background in design and marketing.
But throwing a few things up on Facebook, MySpace, and YouTube does not make you an expert in social media any more than my eating cheese makes me an expert on cows.
With that in mind, please take those silly claims off your page and build some credibility before you start selling yourself as an expert in anything.