Pity for those beyond the pale

The phrase “beyond the pale” dates back to the 14th century, when the part of Ireland that was under English rule was delineated by a boundary made of such stakes or fences, and known as the English Pale. To travel outside of that boundary, beyond the pale, was to leave behind all the rules and institutions of English society, which the English modestly considered synonymous with civilization itself. (Urban Dictionary)

I tremble for my husband.
He isn’t on facebook.
I try—you won’t believe how I try—to keep him current. Relevant. Self-aware and safe. But he insists on existing in that nether-world outside the protection of social media.

“Don’t lock the car with the remote!” I holler as he points the fob at the vehicle. “Always lock manually because facebook says thieves are nearby and can copy the code on their cell-phone. Or something.”

The man is clueless about how to detect a two-way mirror in a public restroom or bedbugs on a hotel mattress.
Without facebook via his wife, he wouldn’t know that potatoes aren’t—no, are—wait, maybe aren’t, good for him.
He doesn’t know the color of his personality, what state suits him best, or which Disney Princess he is.
Poor guy. He thinks vinegar only has one use and looks at baking soda in the same way. ALL THE TIME. He throws away toilet paper tubes instead of saving them to use for THIS awesome hack.

Does he know the clean joy of watching a dyslexic octogenarian juggle Polident tablets while catching a wave on his handcrafted surfboard and singing ‘Let it Go’ backwards?
He does not.
Never will he have the satisfaction of liking twenty baby photos, seven memes, a half-dozen happy statuses, two political rants and a dancing baby elephant, all in five minutes.

I’ve given up hoping he’ll learn how to fold a fitted sheet or t-shirt in under three seconds, because three of his friends shared the youtube demonstrations yesterday.
He won’t even try to turn a 2×4 and a laundry basket into the greatest child’s toy ever.

Without me he would not know who is pregnant, engaged, in a relationship, or complicated.
What if I go away for a few days? Who will fill him in?
Would you believe that he has actually and in person MET everyone he calls ‘friend?”

How can his magnanimity grow when he doesn’t even know one Human of New York?
I myself, virtually acquainted with oodles of New York Humans, am magnanimous to the core.

Secretly I am often relieved he never has to worry that if he doesn’t share This Post he isn’t a patriotic, red-blooded Bible Believer.
Anxiety at being the only person not performing the Cold Water Challenge will never gnaw at him.
He needn’t fret that photos of his grandchildren being adorable don’t get anywhere near as many likes as those of Prince Charles’s grandchildren.

It follows that he never experiences overwhelming guilt at wasting spending thirty-five minutes catching up on the facebook news feed.
I could almost envy him that extra time every day.
Then I remember.
I have 401 friends who are waiting for my likes, comments, birthday wishes and shares. Those relationships take time.

How can I begrudge a man with no basic understanding of his personality type? (He’s ESTP-T. I took the test for him.)
The man is blessed with a wife who knows how to unstick a lid using half a tennis ball, hold a nail in place with a clothespin and clean headlights with toothpaste. All thanks to facebook.

Which also tells me how to survive a bear attack.
Face it.
The man needs the protection only facebook and his wife can provide.

Can Bombs Burst in my Hair?



Here is my pup.

Awwww, you say, she is so cute!
What doesn’t show up on photos is the yellow streak running down her back, her lily liver, or her chicken attitude.


The little girl is a coward.

Now firecracker season is upon us and I’ll spend the next several days trying to convince the pup that the Fireworks are Not Out to Get Her.


The pup won’t believe a word.

We’ll head out to fireworks tomorrow night. Without her. We’ve learned from the experience of the last several years.

We would weigh our options:
1) Take her along into the thick of the battle, where at least we can hold her and try to comfort her?
2) Leave her home alone, where she can hear the bangs and booms, but in a more muted form?
When she is home and hears the pop of a gun, a backfiring car or–heaven forbid–continuous fireworks set off by patriotic neighbors, she panics and tries to insert herself into the smallest hole in the deepest corner of the house.


If she could, she would stuff her paws in her ears.

We worried that someday we would return from fireworks to discover the dog with only her nose sticking out of a toilet paper tube.

So we would take her along.
This is what ensued:

Family: “Oh look, Doggie! Fireworks in the sky! Far away! Aren’t they pretty?
Family Dog: “Not again! We just went through this 7 dog years ago!”


Family: “You’re OK! See? We’re cuddling you tight!”
Family Dog: “If you really loved me you would throw yourself of top of those bombs.”


F: “It’s almost over! You can make it!”
FD: “Possibly…if that gopher over there will share his hole with me…”

F: “All done! Let’s go home!”
FD: “Could you check and make sure I still have all my extremities? Oh, and by the way. You’ll be hearing from my SPCA representative.”


We’re leaving her home this year, and working on a new business venture. Soundproof pet cages.