Speaking of a time warp

Dear Google,

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to switch my blog over to Blogger Beta. I appreciate it. I really do. I am looking forward to trying out the new features. My blog could use a little help in the aesthetic department (not to mention the creative writing, grammar, and punctuation departments) but would you do me a little favor? I am old enough to be your mother. I am. Would you please stop labeling your interface buttons with language that starts with the exclamation Sweet! I repeat: I am old enough to be your mother and you are computer software. You don't need to talk to me that way to persuade me that you are a super-cool cat. You are. I can dig it.

I suppose I wouldn't be such a fuddy-duddy about this if I hadn't experienced another incident today that left me feeling like my mother. (No offense, Mama!) I was at Sports Authority, my go-to store for athletic wear. It's on the grocery store/preschool route. I am in search of the perfect winter jacket. I want one that's good for casual, freaking-cold-Minnesota, every-day wear, running wear, and perhaps 2007 Snowboarding Wear. The Winter of 2006-2007 is the year that The Bickersons are going to freaking EMBRACE WINTER! (Hank, just because your mother uses the f word it does not mean that you can. Got it?)

So there I was at Sports Authority, trying on every jacket on sale, and I found one that I liked. I noted the maker -- Burton -- and planned to check out the online availabilities as soon as I got home because I know I can find the same jacket for less if I'm patient. But I feel more that a little weird being sucked in to wanting something that was originally (probably) designed for and by 13-year-olds. It was. You want proof? Here's but one of the numerous pictures from its website. Proof.

So in conclusion, dear Google. You're cool and all and I like what you and Generation X, Y, and Z have to offer, but I'm old and you might want to tone it down just a tad so as not to alienate the old farts in the crowd.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Bickerson