“Older Than Google”

You know the phrase, "that's old... that's older than dirt!"

My grandparents used that phrase last week when I mentioned a house we'd looked at buying was built in 1942. Grandma was teasing Grandpa because that's the year he was born...

Well, I think I found a new saying that might replace "Older than dirt" in a couple decades.

You see, today is Google's 20th birthday. This internet website and encompassing search engine is a name known to billions. For the past several years, the term "just google it" has become a casual part of our colloquial language. Using Google to look up facts (or fallacies), checking our Gmail, saving files to our Google Drive, it's become part of everyday life for educators, business executives, students, reporters, parents... for everyone that touches a computer.

So today, It hit me in the oddest way that I'm twenty-six years old...

and I'm pre-coining the phrase that people will use to tease me when I'm grandma gray...

“That’s old... that's older than Google!"

Comments

The Problem with Chick Flicks.

I really, really, really enjoy a select few movies that I willingly watch over and over again. Pride and Prejudice is one of them. You see, Elizabeth's defense of her family, her sense of self respect, her ability to admit that she was wrong and to appreciate Darcy despite all his quirks, and quizzical brow-ness... it's marvelous. My husband doesn't share the sentiment, could you tell? ... and that's okay. There's rare a chick flick I enjoy near as much as I enjoy Pride and Prejudice or A Walk To Remember , and I wanted to explain why. You see, there's more than just a few problems with (many, not all) chick flicks: (and if you have a chick flick that escapes many of these pitfalls then please oh please leave it's title in the comment section!) The heroine (or suitor) is less than honorable. I have a hard time rooting for a girl to get a gentleman when she's spending her time being scandalously loose with other men ( #thenotebook) . An...

Where's Number Three

A neighbor in her mid-thirties. A woman in her seventies. Their single commonality? They both asked me: Where's number three? I have a son, his name Charlie And then McKay, he's not quite three In my heart, both fit perfectly Yet others ask: Where's number three? Perhaps it's that I miscarried, My spouse's infidelity, The ache of infertility, A battle raging mentally, Illness on a crippling spree, Our family is complete, maybe. The reason's one or more of these, Yet you dare ask: Where's number three? In this question, running free Are judgements, jeering icily "You're not enough, Mik, can't you see? Buck up and give us number three!" I used to flounder, squirm, agree Or curl up small, cry, and plead. With time, I've seen things differently. I won't explain for number three. The questions of maternity Are just between my spouse and me And Parents, guiding Heavenly So please don't ask: Where's number three? Artwork Credit: Be...

Four Years Ago Today 💗 OCTOBER NINETEENTH

Four years ago today I was scrambling to pull my long locks into a braid, scrub the peanut-and-airline-apple-juice-taste from my teeth, and give myself an appealing smell with some travel-sized lotion from our hotel as I gazed in the mirror in a cramped International Airport bathroom. I'd just flown home after a week in Florida with my parents and brothers in THE BEST of amusement parks. Oh, and my love interest was on his way to pick me up and drive me home. I tittered and fidgeted and shyly smiled my way down the escalator, out the door, onto the curbside pickup sidewalk. And there he was in his silver Dodge Dakota, his verge-of-brunette hair swished to the side and his delightfully dashing grin smiling up at me as he said "How was your trip?" Butterflies? Jitters? Twitterpation? I had it all. From there, we drove to his parents place to pick up some "forgotten" groceries (to this day I think he just really wanted to introduce me to his mom and dad), and...

God is Good to the Johnsons

Search This Blog