Weird stuff I found online today

1. Facebook ad for Alzheimer’s Bathroom.
So it doesn’t let you forget to wipe?

Its “The next evolution in personal hygiene.” That’s because it has an occupied seat sensor. I just assume if the bathroom door is closed, the seat might be in use. But since this thing has a heated seat, it needs to know when to turn on and off. The bidet cleansing options are numerous, including an interesting a suggestive “intensive impulse pulsation.” It has its own remote control. I’m not giving them a free link so if you’re interesting in evolving your toilet, go ahead and look it up: COCO Bidet.

2. Facial expression techno ballet
I think I’m glad I’m not Daito Manabe’s friend.

3. Brain sand
I thought the fact that I could get plaque in the brain was bad enough. Now I have to worry about going to the beach? Actually I’ve learned that I probably already have these deposits also known corpora arenacea. They are calcified structures in the pineal gland and other areas of the brain. Older organisms (like humans) have numerous corpora arenacea, whose function, if any, is unknown. Concentrations of “brain sand” increase with age, so the pineal gland becomes increasingly visible on X-rays over time, usually by the third or fourth decade.

4. Canada also has stupid criminals
Reuters – A “delightful” Bengal tiger named Jonas, and two camels named Todd and Sean, have gone missing in eastern Canada after thieves drove off with the truck and trailer in which they were traveling.

5. There’s a pill for everything
Afraid of social rejection? Just keep the pill ready.

“Over-the-counter headache pill paracetamol, also known as acetaminophen, reduces the pain of social rejection according to a new study just published in Psychological Science.” Source: Mind Hacks

6. Goats just may be smarter (or more interesting) than some humans
A guy made a video about how to turn a cigarette into a knife. For some reason he had a goat in the video that kept trying to eat his props. Go goat.

Reluctant Army Wife

I’ve written before about my conflicted feelings about being an Army wife. Or a Army National Guard wife. It’s not an identity I chose, but it’s coming on with additional force. There’s nothing like a spouse’s upcoming deployment to focus your attention towards the Army and how it affects your life.

The National Guard has more influence on my life than I’d like. It’s the reason I got married. HabMoo and I might be married by now even if he hadn’t deployed, but it was one huge reason I wanted to marry. If something happened to him, I wanted that knock on my door. I didn’t want a visit or call from his parents who I didn’t know well yet. I wanted a person trained in how to deliver such news. Plus he made more money if we were married, so it was a good financial decision, but one I felt a little rushed into making.

This week I’ve taken a few steps to accept this Army wife identity. I joined the family readiness group (FRG—everything has an acronym.) I’ve even volunteered my time to the organization. But I do it with some amount of resistance. And I found myself bristling at so many things I might normally take in stride: website terms and conditions, commander’s approval needed for newsletter content, online discussions needing a moderator, etc.

While working on this blog entry I finally realized where so much of my emotional reaction is coming from. My introduction to the Army was through my high school sweetheart. She was a woman. This meant that everything even remotely indicative of our relationship was hidden. I did not officially exist. Any hint of me was buried. When my partner was at Basic Training I received phone calls only when she could get away from everyone and be as secretive as possible. She didn’t even want too much correspondence from me. I resent the fact that the Army created so much stress in our relationship. I resent the fact that now I can be part of the community because this time I fell in love with some with more testosterone.

I think I need the FRG, however. Being home alone during HabMoo’s deployment and a few extended trainings has been difficult and isolating. I have great friends and family, but I could use the additional support of being around a few others who understand my situation first-hand. I have hopes that if I’m a volunteer for the group, I can shape it a bit so it’s a place where other reluctant spouses and loved ones can feel welcome.

Today I took the additional step of signing up for Military Spouse newsletter. I’m not up to subscribing to the magazine yet. The cover they use to entice you to subscribe shows the 2008 military spouse of the year. So for one thing, I’m appalled that they haven’t updated their ad. For another, it feels too much like other popular women’s magazines. I don’t identify with the spouse of the year image at all. I think I’m a good wife, but I don’t think a childless, bisexual, liberal, agnostic really fits the spouse of the year mold. I am not interested in how to stretch my makeup budget nor about choosing the perfect wine. Luckily, I’m positive that there are others in the FRG group who also have little or no interest in these things.

Here’s what I learned from a page on the site. This should give my friends another sense for why I’m a little uncomfortable with the Army’s intrusion into my life. While my spouse is in uniform, I have specific etiquette to follow.

• Offer your husband an umbrella in the rain, but only if it’s black. He’s not allowed to carry any other color.
• Push the baby carriage or stroller so your spouse doesn’t have to. It’s considered “unmilitary” to do so while in uniform.
• Help your spouse carry any packages or bundles to make it easier for him to salute.

I’m actually happy to know these things. I’m not terribly good at etiquette in any situation and it’s easier if I know which rules I’m probably breaking. And those rules are more for active duty situations. I’m not sure I’ve even seen my husband salute.

I feel like I’ve joined some society with a language and mores I don’t understand yet. I’m slowly learning a few acronyms HabMoo uses, but even at the FRG meeting there were a few I had to ask about. And I know that once I become more of a part of this world, the more I’ll be using that same language and drawing that same boundary around me. I do not like that. I distrust any group large enough to have its own jargon and the Armed Services has layers of it. I don’t want to make someone feel like I felt so many years ago.

I think HabMoo gets a good feeling from being part of an institution with a long history. I wish I felt that same connection. My father served during WWII, but he wasn’t married to my mother at the time. So she has no experiences to share with me other than having a boyfriend killed during the war (and she was never willing to talk about that.) My brother served during Vietnam, but I was too young to remember and he never left the country. I’ve been around only a few people with loved ones serving and mostly I paid almost no attention to that part of their lives. My circle of close friends hasn’t included service members for a long while. So I haven’t found where I fit in history. Can anyone recommend any good book about the history of military wives?

I’m trying to be more comfortable with this identity. You’ll know I’ve drunk the Kool-Aid once I join I ♥♥ Being A Military Spouse! on Facebook. I’m just not there yet. (And those hearts will probably forever keep me out. Are those military spouses all 6th graders?)

Does facial hair make me a witch?

When I was little we went to the Methodist Church each Sunday and always sat in the same pew. (There must have been de facto assigned seating.) Around us were people I knew and felt comfortable and safe with. Except for one woman in the row in front. She had facial hair. That clearly meant that she was a witch. Everyone knows that witches have moles and hairy faces. I don’t think this woman had a mole, but she definitely had a mustache. So she had to be a witch. Except she was in church. I wasn’t sure if witches could get into a church or not. And I didn’t know why the adults around me weren’t scared of this woman. But I was sure she found some way to both worship God and be a witch. Adults were always coming up with strange logic to explain themselves. I was always afraid that she’d look at me and know that I knew she was a witch.

So one of my biggest fear about aging has been that I’ll get facial hair and turn into a witch. Or maybe just a bitch. I must be well on my way because I do have a few strong and healthy hairs that grow on either side of my mouth. I try to keep them well plucked. Sometimes my vigilance wavers, the hairs grown and I find myself actually playing with them. My tongue seems determined to seek them out and wiggle them back and forth. I’m betrayed by my own tongue. My tongue loves those hairs, but I do not. They mark me.

It’s not that I am particularly turned off my facial hair on women now that I’ve grown up and better understand folk and fairy tale illustrations. I spent several years not shaving my underarm or leg hairs. It’s not like I think women should look prepubescent. I have friends with polycystic ovarian disease so I assume they have facial hair, but I’ve never really paid much attention. It doesn’t matter to me. I certainly don’t assume that they are witches. You have to have both wrinkles and facial hair to be a witch.

I just have this lingering sense that in my case, a few hairs on my lip or chin might signal a personality shift. As if each hair might represent an old resentment. As if each hurt or wrong I’ve experienced and not forgiven finds its way out via a facial hair. A long, strong, black facial hair. People will see this and know that I’ve grown old and bitter.

So how do I deal with this? I look up “women mustaches” on Google. People online are cruel to women with mustaches. Now I’m scared of my face showing up on one of those sites. But I’m still not going to wax. Too painful and I’m too much of a princess to stand for that. And I’m too much of a cheap peasant to spend money on electrolysis. So when you see me and my witch hairs, don’t assume that I’m evil or a bitch. Just know that I’ve been too lazy to pluck them. Or just assume you won’t be kissing my lips and try to ignore the hairs. And I’ll try not to frighten your children.