All About Meme

“I love them,” I said, “Where do they come from?”

My kid, of course, was creating music on Garage Band and ignored me.

He flat out refused to take piano lessons last year. He loves playing around on the keyboard and has a good ear for music and a mother who, you know, taught music lessons for years.

But put an iPad in his hands, and the kid thinks he’s Mozart.

No, it was Beethoven who went deaf. Must be Beethoven.

Little Ludwig is one of my “go-to”s for all things techy because every five minutes my electronics are outdated and updated and generally leaving me in the Stone Age.

I am used to feeling stupid on a regular basis. But I don’t like to live there.

“Mom,” he asked, “what is a me me?”

“Look at my Pinterest,” I demanded, shoving my MacAir between him and his decibels.

My Pinterest, as you know, is full of wise-cracking memes that speak to me at gut level. I figure if I laugh hard enough, I will eventually build up some nice abs.

“Somebody, somewhere, is making these!” I told him, “And I want in. Where do they come from?”

After some severe eye-rolling, I was told to pronounce it “meem”.


L van B knew everything except that. So I turned to Siri and within five minutes, I had this:


Now I can wax poetic about the fact that my family, while willing in spirit, are totally incapable in body, of landing anything where it actually goes.

The dirty dishes are set two inches away from the dishwasher.

The dirty clothes are set two inches away from the hamper.

Only two inches of toilet paper are left on the spindle.

Wet towels lie crumpled below the racks from which they ought to hang.

But this little gem of a meme gets right to the point. ‘Nuff said.

And yes, it should be called a “me me” if “I I” made it.


The next thing I wanted to figure out is how to add sound and video clips to my blog…


Look! It took two teenagers and one frazzled mom to figure out that I can (sort of) put audio in this blog.

First we tried Garage Band, so we went with that truly obnoxious 80s tribute to Amadeus, just to make my point to the kid.

Who didn’t get it. Which doesn’t matter because neither did Garage Band.

This one is iMovie. So naturally, it wants to be a movie. You’re welcome that I didn’t show what we all looked like while trying to find the right buttons to push in the right order.

Oh my.

And I realized why they know more about technology than I do, and why the socks never land in the hamper:

I am a “the hamper’s half empty” kind of mom, and they are “the hamper’s half full” kind of kids.

They are fearless with buttons. They act like the world won’t blow up if you push the red button, and I was raised knowing for a fact that you do NOT push the red button. Ever.

So I’ll be attempting to throw more socks to the wind and find more ways to have fun with buttons.

I hope I win.

Dead Ant Dead Ant

Every day during the month of July, I wipe ants from my countertops.

They blend right in.

I can’t tell they’re there until I lean against the sink to get a mug and step back covered in swarming black dots.

They come seeking water, food, and small children. They queue for trashcans, sinks, dirty laundry, and whatever’s in the bottom of the pet cage. I have seen them carry a fat dead spider up a wall and take it to pieces so it will fit into their minuscule lunch boxes.

We try to keep them at bay with swipes and vacuum hoses and occasional squirts of lethal canned chemicals until they retreat once again to the great outdoors.

I may have continued to tolerate this yearly tradition if they had remained in camouflaged seclusion.

But they crossed the line.

At 3:34am precisely, I woke from a dead sleep to dance around the bedroom while smacking myself in the head.

With wild enthusiasm.

This is not my normal routine.

An ant had crawled into my ear.

Go ahead and take a minute to imagine a wretched tickling sensation, followed by the realization that this ant was going directly into my brain to lay eggs.

Hey, it was 3:30 in the morning.

Ants defy gravity. The harder I tried to shake it out, the further into my head it crawled.

Now if it had crawled up my nose, no problem.

But how do you blow your ear?

Hubby watched, bleary-eyed from beneath the bed quilt, as I shrieked, “Get out! Get out! Get out!”

No way was he getting involved in an obvious Voodoo ritual.

I ran into the bathroom, flipped on the light, and aimed my ear at it. Bugs go towards light, right?

I felt it wander along my ear canal, tiny legs slithering through earwax and creeping upside down toward it’s doom.

With one last almighty left hook, the ant was history.

I don’t really remember staggering back to bed but I must’ve because when I woke up in the morning, drooling into my mattress, all I could think of was ants. And tea. Now.

Dragging myself into the kitchen, I reached for the kettle. The black kettle. The electric one on the counter. I grabbed a handle covered in ants.

They were swimming in my kettle water.

I watched one dive from the spout shouting “Bonsai!”


It’s on.

I pulled out my secret weapon.


Instead of looking up cute little crafts and hairdos, you need to search for the real home decorating tips: “ant” “destruction” “toxic” and “lethal” will do it.

Much like French Braiding, I already knew how to make ant bait.

But Pinterest adds just a little pizzazz to the event.

I pulled my Karo syrup out from the back of the cupboard. I only use it every five years to make pecan pies, so it’s expendable. I braved the black widows in the garage depths and found some Borax powder.

With a plastic fork on festive purple plastic margarine lids, I mixed up the little cocktail and served it to our ants.

I served up enough for a block party.

I set them in convenient celebratory locations and placed tiny paper umbrellas on the side, as a nod to Pinterest.

Drink up, you little horde of horrors.

May we all rest in peace.