MySpace Me, or Not

Social Networking web sites have always fascinated me.


Okay that's not entirely true, when my college roommate first made me a MySpace page (that's right, I didn't go over to the dark side willingly) I felt like Carrie Bradshaw on that episode of Sex and the City when she gets her first AOL email account, tries to send Aidan an instant message and is fearful that he can in fact see her through the computer. How creepy that people troll these pages in an attempt to hook up. I mean, honestly, why would I want strangers to be able to look at personal pictures of me or know random facts about who I am?


Pretty sure after seeing a special episode of 20/20 my mom also phoned to make sure I wasn't putting my personal address and phone number on the site (look both ways before crossing the street, don't talk to strangers and use the buddy system!). Obviously my irrational (but not totally unfounded) fears of being stalked by an axe wielding serial killer prevented me from disclosing any such information into the world wide web. I also know not to run upstairs (or hide in a closet) when said axe wielder pounds through your front door. Really? Do you think he's not going to check the one closet you're hiding in? Do you think you'll suddenly sprout wings and fly off of your second story roof? I. Think. Not.

Anyway after signing up for MySpace it was a downward spiral. Suddenly I had MySpace and a Facebook page - both of which occupied 40% of my total work day on maintenance alone. You have to upload pictures, take quizzes, comment on people's status, update your friend list, download a new song, make sure the background suites your style, leave messages for people, search for friends, etc, etc. So much to do and so little time.

The greatest joy that I found in both sites was the new ability to stalk people that I went to High School with. How amazing that you no longer have to wait 10 years for a reunion to see the triumphs and failures of your graduating class. Instead it's all spelled out for you right there on your own personal computer screen (and with picture evidence to back it up)! Glorious.

After a while, I naturally gravitated toward Facebook, somewhat abandoning my Myspace account - only signing on if a friend left a comment (which sort of stopped happening once Facebook opened up to the mainstream). The other day, I thought it would be a great idea to log back into my MySpace and see how out of date all of the pictures and info really were, to go through my old messages to clean them out etc...

Suffice to say, I was stunned.

Not by my pictures or out of date information section but by the sheer number of insane messages that I have received from guys on MySpace over the years. Now I know that I had previously read all of these messages when they arrived in my inbox, but seeing them all at once, back to back really concerned me.

I would like to submit as evidence, Exhibit A:

I don't know, sir. I typically don't "chat" with random strangers who can't find the time to type out full words and don't enjoy the beauty of punctuation. Word to the wise: Question marks are your friend. Don't neglect them.

And Exhibit B:

Besides the obvious misuse of the word "catched" (PS appropriate tense is important when speaking - maybe a refresher course is in order?) this guy seems kind of nice. He is respectful, he doesn't use "U" in place of "You" and he says complimentary things like "Your (wrong again) a (just add an "n"!) attractive woman." We've had the "First Impressions" conversation already. This lack of important grammar skills is immediately off putting to me. That may make me sound like a crazy English teacher - but it's true. I certainly can't take you seriously if you use the wrong version of "Your." And I will admit that I have been typing too fast once or twice and misused it myself - but this guy didn't grammar check at all. So, sir, would I consider getting to know you better? No.

Moving on to Exhibit C:
Ok this just sounds like a singles add in the paper. While I appreciate that he followed most of the rules of grammar (I can't fault him for the one typo) his approach is ridiculous (mostly b/c his approach includes a message on MySpace) and his use of the word Princess. "I would love to wine and dine and spoil you someday." Hmmm. Interesting. Does this include Dom Perignon soaked afternoons on your yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean? Because I'm thinking, in reality, this means one plastic cup of Andre each on a borrowed dinghy in the Marina. The marina I can walk to from my house. Thrilling.

And finally Exhibit D:

I just...I can't...I mean...really?
Is this really the new wave of the future? Is THIS how I am expected to meet the love of my life? I mean I hear about it all the time - this guy randomly messaged that girl, they talked for a while and then when they met it was BAM love at first sight (or type? not really sure how that works). If this is the pool that I have to choose from, then no thank you. My shoes have better communication skills than these people.

So maybe I have tough standards, but I don't think that speaking appropriately is too much to ask of a potential soul mate. They may not actually be able to see you, Carrie Bradshaw, but they will bludgeon you to death with a "there" instead of "they're" or throw something like "dat" instead of "that" at you. Personally, I'd rather take my chances with the axe wielding psycho.

Soul Mate Specialist

I recently saw this ad taped to a phone poll in Marina del Rey. That's right. Soul Mate Specialist. And for the extremely low, recession friendly price of $5. You know you're getting the facts when you shell out a whole $5.

The best part about the add - the small print that you can't read (because the camera on my Blackberry is not exactly quality) says "Reuniting Lovers Permanently: Even When They're Already Taken." This one goes out to all the fellas who call you to tell you they've named their pillow after you and talk to it at night because they just miss you that much (despite the fact that you saw them only two hours earlier). CREEEPPPY.

That's right - a Psychic home wrecker and Soul Mate Specialist. Wrap your minds around that one, my friends. And if you need to talk it over with someone, make sure that someone is not your pillow. "Pillow Talk" is just an expression.

Lost In Translation

I'd like to know exactly when society decided that manners were no longer necessary on first dates. 

 

As a general rule of thumb, I believe it is rather important to make a good first impression on people, whether they be business relationships, friendships, possible romantic interests etc.  As "open minded" as we all claim to be in this politically correct day and age, I believe we, as humans, have an instinct to judge.  I will be the first to admit that I am an internal judger.  I will never say it to your face, but I will make snap judgements, particularly if you decide to pair your puke green colored dress socks with Birkenstocks.  Are you a Yuppie or a Hippie?  You can't be both - so choose your choice.  But if I could intervene, convince you to err on the side of good taste and choose to be neither I will have done my good deed for the day. 

 

First impressions are, obviously, crucial.  So why do some people seem to throw caution to the wind when it comes to how they present themselves on first dates?  A few years ago, I met a guy at a bar.  I know what you're thinking - of course this guy was a loser, you met him at a bar!  Alas, dear friends, my lovely parents met at a bar and have been happily married for a very long time - so I count out no physical locations when it comes to meeting people.  Granted, my mom seems to think I'm going to meet someone in the freezer section at Ralphs.  This is the same woman that whole heartedly believes that I'm going to marry some guitar toting, note swinging rock star (John Meyer specifically) and start a Rock 'n Roll family, with little guitar playing children who start their own rock band and travel around on a psychedelically painted bus (if you haven't already guessed my mom falls on the Birkenstocks side of the divide). 

 

So I met this particular fellow as I was crossing the intersection of Intoxicated Blvd and Forgot Everything that Happened Last Night Lane.  After wandering away from my friends at their designated hangout spot in the bar I heard a voice that said "Hey!  Come Here!"  I felt a tug on my arm and what I believed to be a handsome stranger (damn beer goggles) pulled me into a corner and started talking to me.  For reasons that we will not discuss in detail,I can not remember exactly what it was we discussed.  All I know is that at some point, he programmed a number into my cell phone with the name "Frank" attached to it (the name has been changed not for his protection but rather because I can't remember it.  The story you are about to read was such a horrific experience that I have blocked out specific details for my own sanity).  After speaking with him for what could not have been longer than five minutes (my friends pulled me away as it was time to leave) all I took away was that I thought he had a really cute French accent (I know - stop falling for the foreign boys).  

 

The next morning, after the initial shock of not remembering anything about this mysterious boy, I focused on getting myself up and out of bed and ready for work (note to self - you're not 21 anymore, this hungover, nausous feeling is unacceptable at your age).  After a grueling day of answering phones at the office, I received an interesting and unexpected voicemail:

 

"Hi, um...this is Frank...from last night. I really enjoyed meeting you and was wondering if we could go out sometime?  Give me a call..."

 

I was stunned.  Rarely did they call the next day, especially if the encounter was as brief as I assume ours was that night.  As I listened to the voicemail, I thought about all the wonderful things we could do on our first date...how awesome would it be to date the French boy!  He may not have a car, Mom, but he has an accent!  But then I listened to his voicemail again...and I walked away from it a tad confused.  My French friend no longer sounded French - but Austrailian.  Being the accent lover that I am, I typically do not confuse them with each other, but as I replayed and replayed it it definitely sounded Austrailian.  Interesting.  But not completely out of the question - as we've established, I was intoxicated and all...

 

So of course I called to confirm our first date.  And when I spoke with him on the phone - things got even stranger.  Now his accent sounded English (UK style).  But I brushed that off too thinking, Australian and English can sometimes be hard to tell apart (please don't kill me for saying that - I know they are very distinct and different dialects, but I had to rationalize my confusion somehow).  So I brushed my worries aside and we agreed to meet for our first date...

 

I should preface this next part with the fact that I have an irrational fear of first dates with people I've never really met before.  What if they turn out to be crazy?  What if they attack?  What if they try to bore me to death with awful stories about their cat named Jamison who runs into the glass door everytime he sees a bird outside (seriously people - come up with more interesting first date stories already)?  Naturally, I make sure to have friends nearby on retainer, just in case I need someone to mysteriously call, or even myseriously show up at dinner and provide an easy out or rescue.  Bailey was the winner for this particular evening. 

 

When I arrived at the restaurant, he was...well...there.  He wasn't what I remembered.  Definitely not the handsome French man that I had envisioned on my imaginary date earlier in the evening.  As he sat down at the table, I noticed that the button up shirt that he was wearing was missing a button.  Not "missing" in that he forgot to button a button (which is awkward and embarrassing, but forgivable) no he was missing a button - meaning when he got dressed for this date, he purposely put on a shirt that was missing a button, that he could not button all the way up.  Did he not pass a mirror on his way out of the house?  Did he just not bother to look?  As a result, I was privy to the forrest of hair that was growing wildly on his chest.  A lovely sight at dinner. 

 

We began to talk, simply, friendly small talk and finally he gave me a lead in to ask where he was from, to finally clear up the whole accent affair...

 

"Before I moved out here, I lived with my Mom, Dad and brother..."

"Oh, cool.  So where exactly are you from?"

"Isn't it obvious from the accent?"

 

Shit.  Lucky for me, I'm good on my toes...

 

"Of course it's obvious.  I mean what city are you from?"

"Dusseldorf."

 

Ah...so he's GERMAN.  Ok, I fail at life if I can't pick out a German accent. 

 

We ordered and I was not very hungry so I ordered a baked potato and he ordered a salad and pasta dish.  When his salad arrived he ate like a caveman.  Seriously, the man had ranch dressing all over his mouth.  And he just...kept...talking.  About NOTHING!  He worked for some airline doing God knows what (I should remember, he talked about it for so flipping long, but for my own sanity I blocked a lot of this evening from my mind).  When his pasta arrived, he seriously (and I am definitely not joking here) wanted to feed it to me from across the table.  I think he really thought we were having a romantic meal, meanwhile I was holding back my gag reflex as he lunged at me with a fork, salad dressing all over his mouth and the middle button of his shirt open to reveal more chest hair than I have ever seen on a man in my life.  Naturally, I politely declined. 

 

When the meal was finally over, I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel, until he decided he wanted to take a walk.  Mind you, there is nothing but residential streets around this restaurant.  Dark, residential, completely deserted streets.  Since I didn't pack my mase and taser for the evening, I again, respectfully declined out of fear for personal safety.  I did let him walk me to my car, though.  I didn't want to seem rude. 

 

Now this is the part that I wish with every fiber of my being that I could actually erase from my mind.  We arrived at my car and I began searching for my keys (damn it I should have found them when we were in the restaurant so that they were ready - keys can be good weapons when used correctly).  As I search away, he begins prattling on about how much fun he had and how much he likes me blah, blah blah.  And before I know it, the man is attacking my face.  Seriously.  It was one of those wet, sloppy, messy (read disgusting) kisses that every girl dreads being on the recieving end of.  I pulled away when I felt as if I might throw up a bit in my mouth...

 

I could not drive away fast enough. 

First dates and first impressions are important.  I can't stress that enough.  Take it from me - sloppy kiss, ranch dressing, missing button guy - totally not attractive.  It's just as disgusting as the dress socks/Birkenstock combo.  Choose your choice.  Choose good taste.   

Don't Skip on the Pine-Sol

I got hit on at Bed, Bath and Beyond the other day and (surprise, surprise) it was a little awkward.

Don't get me wrong, I was totally flattered (what girl doesn't love a compliment whilst standing amidst the Sham-WOWs, the Topsy Turbans and the little egg looking things that are supposed to shave dead skin off your feet. Now that's the dream) but the guy was just so strange - and not in a creepy way.

I was at Bed, Bath and Beyond because I am remodeling my closet (and by remodeling I mean that I bought new pretty plastic boxes to store all my shoes in - keeping them in their original boxes was getting a little overwhelming - one too many shoe avalanches on my head at 6:30a has taught me that painful lesson). On this particular shopping adventure, I had 8 coupons for 20% off and 1 for $5 off the entire purchase, naturally I bought 15 things (not all plastic shoe boxes). My shopping addiction really does expand into all categories, but it mostly benefits my closet in some fashion.

Not planning ahead, I did not have a cart. So...I ended up throwing a few items in one plastic shoe box, placing that in 10 other shoe boxes and then balancing their matching lids on top of that. Basically I was an accident waiting to happen. To make matters worse, when I arrived at the sales counter, the line was snaking through a spill zone. One of the employees was graciously mopping at people's feet as she attempted to clean something up (if I had to venture a guess, I would have pinned the crime on the snot nosed 4 year-old grasping an open water bottle filled with red punch. That's what sippey cups are for, people. They sell them in the dishware section. Get a clue). Why said employee did not relocate the line to another location is beyond me. Instead, she thought it best to swing that mop all over the floor and all over people's shoes. Panic obviously coursed through my body - I was wearing a pair of brand new strappy wedges and the last thing I needed was for her to smear Murphy Oil Soap all over them. The shoes had to be saved at all costs! What can I say, I'm a defender of the helpless and innocent.

As I danced around her mop, trying to avoid getting any cleaning solution on my shoes, I continuously feared the crash of the shoe boxes that I was balancing in my arms. Luckily, my turn at the register quickly came and I was out of the way of the devil mop.

As I approached, the salesman gave his obligatory, "How are you today?" and I responded with the appropriate, "I'm great, how are you?" Perhaps I should have avoided the question, he obviously took it as an invitation to start a full conversation.

"You look beautiful tonight, miss."

Oh. Wait. What? That one caught me off guard.

"Oh, thank you. I'm on my way to dinner." *Scanning of products, Scanning of products*
"Can I ask you what you are wearing?"

Now for the normal person, this question triggers an answer about perfume. My mixed up mind went immediately to, well the shoes of course, but more importantly the stunning black wrap dress I had mysteriously discovered at the back of my closet that morning. I don't remember ever purchasing it, I only have vague memories of seeing it just once before but magically, there it was in between my blue dress from Banana Republic and my red dress from Bebe. Ann Taylor. Hmmm. Didn't know I had it. So of course, when it came my turn to respond - my answer was...

"Um. Hm. Wait. Oh - do you mean my perfume?"
"Yes."
"Oh. I think I'm wearing Chanel today."
"Well, you smell fantastic."

Really? Cause I'm pretty sure my perfume wore off, like, 5 hours ago and all I can smell is the pool of pine-sol that my feet are currently marinating in.

"Thank you." Was my real response.

More scanning, more scanning. Finally, he scanned the coupons and then got to the last one with a look of dread on his face.

"Oh, I didn't realize you had a $5 coupon in here. That changes everything. I'm going to have to go back and do it all over again."

I legitimately felt bad about this. I hate when I hold up lines or inconvenience people, so I quickly apologized.

"Don't worry. I'd do anything for a beautiful woman."
"Oh. Well. Thanks. That's really sweet."
"No seriously. Now don't go telling the news or anything - they're going to start thinking I'm prejudice to the ugly folk - but I just do anything for a pretty lady."

*Obligatory, awkward laughter*

For the sake of time, I will not recount, in detail, the 5 minute conversation that then followed. Just be sure that he pretty much repeated the same thing over and over and I laughed and said things like "Oh, thank you" or "How sweet."

Meanwhile, the line behind me began to back up with customers and the guy directly behind me was CUTE. Like, really cute. AND he was balancing a ton of little plastic boxes just like me. I like to think of us as possible soul mates. We obviously have similar storage concerns - what better reason is there to base a relationship off of?

So by the time the clerk told me to "Have a wonderful day" I was too embarrassed to say anything to my possible soul mate. Perhaps our fates will cross again one day in the bedding section and we will fall in love (for the second time) over a Donna Karen bed ensemble with matching pillows.

I would like to repeat that I'm not complaining here. The clerk was so sweet, very nice and very helpful and I am never one to turn down a compliment. I appreciate that he was NOT creepy like many men can be in situations like those. All in all, I walked out, yes a little awkward, but also with a bit of a skip in my step. :-)

I guess if you need a pick-me-up, just head to Bed, Bath and Beyond - and don't skip on the pine-sol perfume. The guys go crazy for it!

God, Is that You?

I think God, or the spirit world, or some supreme yoga being is trying to tell me that I have issues.

I attend Yoga twice a week and this past Wednesday, we had a substitute teacher who was more into the breathing and the chanting than the use of Yoga for exercise purposes. Which is great and all (to each his own), but I enjoy the strange aspects of Yoga - like learning how to twist yourself into this or that pretzel-like shape - it seems impossible but it's not!

When we were done with the breathing and the chanting, she walked around and told us each to pick a card from some mysterious deck of yoga cards. They each had a word at the top, a picture and an inspirational saying. As the cards circulated the room, and people read theirs aloud, words like "Woman" or "The Path" were coming up. All very inspiring and Yoga-like. The cards smelled like incense so there was even a calming factor filling the room as people began to trickle out.

And what did my card say, you ask?

Anger.

Yes - Anger. Not love or harmony or peace or joy or any other calming word I might associate with yoga. No, I got the angry card. And when I read it out to the class, everyone looked at me. It was actually more embarrassing than the time I attempted Crow position and fell on my head. After I read the card, even the teacher looked at me with a face, as if these were Tarot cards and I just picked the one that predicted immanent death.

"Don't practice anger," she said, smiling awkwardly in an attempt to ease the tension "just, um, try not to be angry." It didn't work. I was angry that this strange little card, from this strange little woman seemed to be telling me I was an angry person. She lingered momentarily, as if she felt obligated to try and comfort me even though every bone in her body was screaming at her to get away from the freak girl who pulled the "Angry" card from the pile. Perhaps she thinks anger is contagious and didn't want to catch it from me? After that brief pause, she pretty much bolted.

So there you have it. I'm angry. Watch out! Because I'm angry.

The Yoga-Gods said so.

Text Twist

I think that I have made my opinion on texting pretty clear in prior posts. I don't like it. Well, that's not true, I do like it in that it makes my day to day communication with friends and family a lot easier (although now that Mom has learned the art of texting, I am often inundated with random "What are you up to?" texts at bizarre times. I imagine her sitting in the recliner, Dad working nearby on the crossword puzzle, tired of reading her book, and just generally wondering what craziness her daughter is up to at the moment - might I remind you, Mother, that despite popular belief, my life is not a soap opera). As I was saying, texting - good in general, but just like "That's What She Said" jokes - there is a time and a place.

My problem with texting is that it allows people to be less accountable for their actions. It's a lot easier to be a complete ass to someone when you don't have to stare them in the face, or hear their voice over the phone. Because honestly, no one should ever have to receive the following message via text: "BTW, I'm married now, so if we hang out - we can't hook up." Ummmm. Great? I haven't seen you in two years. I haven't talked to you in just as long. I didn't even know you had a steady girlfriend and now all of a sudden, out of the blue, you're announcing your marital status like it's unimportant side commentary?

Oh, BTW, I probably wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole. Just saying.

Avry has survived one such hit and run text. Actually, she survived that exact hit and run text. She had not spoken with this man in many moons and (without provocation I would like to add) he texted her on New Years Eve to announce that he was married and that they could no longer "hook up." I'm sorry, that makes no sense to me. Do you see me running around texting all past relationships when things happen to me? "BTW - I bought a pair of tall Jimmy Choo's today - so if I ever see you face to face again, I'll probably be towering over you" (perhaps I am the only one who faces that particular issue as my natural height sans shoes is taller than many men).

I am going to try to promise that this will be my last posting on texting as I am coming to realize that in 2009 alone I've written three or four mentioning this very topic. Apparently it is just something that really irks me. The same way that Crocs footwear irks me. I don't have a problem with them existing - I just don't think they are appropriate for all occasions.

I don't wear my heels to the mountains, so why are you wearing your Crocs to the Oscars.

If I Had Some Duct Tape, I Could Fix That

My roommate and I MacGyvered our toilet the other day.

The chain broke off from the lever and so the little stopper wouldn't lift up when you tried to flush it (you like my official plumbing lingo?). So, in our heels and dresses (we were headed out for some fabulous Cuban cuisine and dancing) we MacGyvered our toilet back together - using a safety pin.

That's right - we fixed it. Not permanently by any means - but enough to get it to function until our landlord decides to actually fix it in the non-safety pin variety.

Take THAT, Dad. I did learn something from following you around all those years - even if I was just playing with the socket wrench because it made a really cool noise.