Archive for November, 2009
What would my blog be if I didn’t include the adventures of house/pet sitting!?!?!? Boring, that’s what!!!
This past Easter, the kids and I spent two weeks house sitting and pet sitting in a beautiful 6 bedroom 6 bathroom 3-floor house in a really nice neighborhood. My friends have a great house with all of the fixins (read: plasma tv, every electronic gadget imaginable…) In addition to a super spiffy and nice house they have three pets.
Lucky is a pretty old doggie, but is awful sweet. Nala is a cute little kitty. She is soft with white-ish grayish fur and blue eyes. S’more is a gecko. She/He eats crickets. (Geckos are androgynous at first glance. I wasn’t going to go snooping.)
Easy peasy for pet-sitting, right?
WRONG!!!!!
On Monday morning I woke up to find what looked like a small, neat pile of Easter candy on the living room floor. But then I found a ripped open Ziploc bag behind a chair and realized one of the animals had gotten into the candy and ate about 90% of it. Crap!!!
Chocolate kills dogs you know, not sure about cats but either way it looks like SOMEONE is going to have a bad stomach ache with all the candy AND wrappers eaten. My stomach started to churn as I imagined telling my good friends that their pet died. But hey, let’s wait and see what happens before we make any sad announcements. I decided I’d be checking cat poo and dog poo for the next 24 hours (S’more was not the culprit since he/she cannot get out of his/her cage).
On Monday night my brother and his girlfriend came over for dinner. While we were eating, a neighbor boy came over crying that he couldn’t find his mom (I know her too.) I told him to go upstairs to play with my kids. While I was calling her cell (she’d gone for a walk), my brother went upstairs to check on the children.
Let me pause while I say a prayer of thanks as I remember how God saved my butt that night. Thank you, thank you oh thank you.
So my brother yells for me to come upstairs right away and this is what I discovered/found/learned:
S’more is out of her/his cage on the floor.
The heat lamp that keeps S’more warm was on the floor. Bulb down.
A little lesson for you:
- Bulbs on heat lamps are hot – that is why they call them heat lamps and not cold lamps.
- Heat lamps burn your fingers. They burn carpet too. Carpet in your friend’s half-million dollar house.
- Expensive carpet burns like plastic: it melts into a nice, pretty, crispy circle of brown solid matter.
- Geckos have holes on the sides of their heads. These are their ears and not holes that you think your child poked into their noggins.
So after that fiasco – we got the boy home, S’more in her/his cage, thanked God that the house didn’t burn down, yelled at my daughter who took S’more out and put the light on the rug, and then finished dinner.
Tuesday: Time to feed S’more crickets. I had to dump a dozen crickets live into her/his cage. S’more is fast on her/his little legs and randomly chomps crickets. There is carnage all over her/his cage. It is disgusting.
Wednesday: Lucky and Nala appear no worse for the wear after eating half a gallon of Easter candy. Still no poo, though.
Thursday morning: Nala pukes all over a Persian rug in the Music Room (complete with piano and harp.) The puke is pink and nasty. I really want to go home.
Thursday afternoon: Nala escapes outside. I want to kill my daughter.
Thursday afternoon: Nala is found under the house eating grass. Nala comes out after two hours of coaxing. (Did you know cats REALLY like tuna and if a cat is stuck under your house that tuna on a plate will get it right out? Yeah, I didn’t know that either until my brother told me.)
Thursday night: Nala has the runs in her litter box. It stinks. (Did you know that if you wretch enough while trying not to pass out from the smell of kitty litter diarrhea then your eyes start to water and you think you might really puke your guts out???)
So I think Nala ate all the candy. She sleeps on my lap most of the night and doesn’t move much. I’m pretty sure I’ve killed her.
Friday: Poop duty (doodie!?) day. Guess what I find in Lucky’s pooh? Tons of foil wrappers and candy wrappers. I guess chocolate doesn’t kill all dogs. Still not sure what made Nala sick.
Friday night: Nala turns into the cat from hell and bounces all over the house attacking me and the kids like she’s ingested two tons of cat nip. I guess that means she is either feeling better or has a rare form of rabies and is going to eat us in the middle of the night.
Saturday: S’more’s cage is littered with miscellaneous cricket parts: a head, an elbow, a wing. It is really gross.
Sunday: going to take Lucky for a walk. It goes like this:
Come on Lucky!! Excited! Woof woof! Let’s go for a walk! Woof woof!
Here we go, out to the sidewalk!!
(Lucky jerks back and screaches) YIPE! YOWL! BRWOOOWW! YIPE YIPE YIPE!
Lucky, what is the matter? (Lucky looks rather put out) Pant pant pant whine.
You okay Lucky? Woof!! Okay let’s walk! Woof woof!
Time to go home, come on Lucky! Woof!
Almost there! Here we are! (through the front yard steps) Pant pant whine!
What’s wrong Lucky? Come on in! (tug tug) YIIIIIIIIPPPE! YOOOOOOWWWWWWLLLL!!
Lucky, what is wrong!!!!!!??????
(Calling neighbor) Something is wrong with Lucky! (listening) yeah, uh huh… oooh. Electric collar? Sends a shock? Oh.
Here’s what I learned: If your friend has an electric invisible fence, make sure you TAKE THE COLLAR OFF OF THE DOG BEFORE YOU TAKE HER FOR A WALK.
I don’t pet sit any more. So don’t ask.
I like to laugh. Who doesn’t?
Way back in junior high school, I realized that making people laugh by making funny jokes and comments really got me up higher on the popularity list. Don’t think I’m shallow: you KNOW how kids can be in jr and sr high. Being popular pretty much meant you were just made fun of way less than the not-so-popular kids.
It took me a while to refine my humor from lame funny comments to true snarkasm: snarky and sarcastic responses. Going over my old blog and some of my new posts, I’m realizing that I’ve come a long way from delving into more serious matters of the heart and of life and typically cover up any and all seriousness with sarcastic and cynical comments.
Not too long ago, I found a poem I’d written for my grandmother. She died in 1984 from liver cancer. I wrote it in 1992 on a day I must have been feeling particularly inspired because it was one of several poems I’d written that day. Rereading it I was surprised at how blunt and honest I was about my feelings and how the loss still impacted me so many years later. I wanted to chide the 18-year old me for being so melodramatic but stopped myself as I realized the importance of the entire emotional spectrum, even if its the kind of emotions that result in people saying you are dramatic or over emotional.
Oddly enough, my ten year old daughter is just that: her picture is actually in the dictionary next to the words “drama queen.” How many times have I scolded her for being “too dramatic” or “overly emotional” about something? Too many times I’m starting to think. Granted, all prepubescent girls (and boys!) experience their emotions much more intensely than we do. But my daughter… well she feels things with her whole heart. When a close friend of the family died, she cried as we expected (I did too) but she took things a step farther: she lamented and imagined that perhaps in a dream she could say goodbye to this person, and she recounted to me how she would do so. She was very upset about the fact that she had seen our friend only days before his sudden death but didn’t run up to him to get a hug like she usually would have.
I tried to be matter-of-fact with her, not so much to stop her from being over dramatic, but mostly because I wanted to shorten the grieving process for her. So guess what I did? I made a joke. I said if our friend saw her crying so much and being so sad, he’d likely give her a noogie and tell her to move on with life.
In reality, we both grieved just as much but with different expressions: I made the jokes and tried to lighten the mood and kept my emotions in check, she cried and shared her feelings with anyone willing to listen. She even wrote our friend’s wife a beautiful letter declaring her undying love for our friend and how he would never be forgotten.
Sweet girl. She reminds me of Montgomery’s Anne Shirley.
So what’s my point? Well, I guess I’m going to have to allow the sentimental, emotional (dare I say girly?) part of me to come out and write a little bit once in a while. I may not be sending out any poems any time soon, but I will find some time to share with you a bit of what I’ve experienced in life.
But I guarantee I’ll STILL find a way to sneak some sarcasm in there. Seriously.
Every once in a while I get the urge to go into my spam box in my Gmail account and hit “select all” then “delete all.” Although Gmail is pretty good about catching spam and junk mail, I still want to have the satisfaction of hitting that delete button and sending all of these lame emails to email heaven.
Today I did just that. I went into my spam box and wondered WHO sends me this junk? There must have been about 500 emails in there. Do these people really make money with their misspelled words, strange links and odd products they are offering? If not, why do they waste their time? Are there really people who do nothing but send junk mail to the rest of the planet, hoping to infect us all with their little trojans, viruses and worms?
I’d just like to take a moment and mention a few things to all y’all spammers and phishers et. al.:
To all of the dating agencies: as if it’s not enough that you tell me daily, daily! that I’m a loser (can’t get lucky in love >insert email addy here<?), you keep sending me emails about WOMEN!!! For the love of Pete! Get up to speed with your marketing demographics! I’M A GIRL.
Using “Hot Single Asians Chicks” in the subject line does NOT get my attention. If you really want to get my business, use something like “Meet a really great guy – and he’s not married OR gay!” Maybe then I’ll check it out. Maybe.
Condom people: How on earth do I manage to win a “lifetime supply of condoms” almost every month? Mathematically speaking, if I’d won a lifetime supply last month, I doubt I’ve used them all by THIS month. Besides, I’m a loser and need an online dating agency, therefore I really don’t have much use for condoms at the moment.
Come to think of it, the online dating service people should share their information with the free condom people: only send the condom emails to the people who are actually in a relationship.
And to all of my long lost relatives in Uganda, as well as friends the political outcasts of Nigeria: please, I’d love to make 15% of your $1,000,000,000,000 funds. If only I could help you, “beloved friend, dearest one.” I’m just a little worried about my tax return. Maybe next year.
To Robert Allen, Russ Dalbey: Tell you what, send me your bank account number and I’ll have my dearest beloved friends in Uganda and Nigeria transfer you some money.
I don’t need a lifetime supply of Viagra. I’m a girl. (See above).
I DON’T want a free giftcard to >Applebees, Red Lobster etc< after signing up for another great offer, which costs me about 5 times more than the gift card.
For you Phishers: I DO NOT HAVE AN ACCOUNT WITH WACHOVIA!!! I do NOT need to change my password or reset my accounts at Bank of America or CitiBank or Ebay.
I’m amazed that these keep making the rounds. Who, exactly, is encouraging these people!?!?
Oh, the days where “Spam” was only used in conversations that went something like this:
“Would you like some fried Spam with that?”
“Ew gross! No!”
…and phishing was just a misspelling for an afternoon sports event with your uncle out on the lake. Simpler times, people. Simpler times.
If you receive emails requesting you log in with your account information, please do not follow the link. It is likely a phishing email. Contact your financial institution directly and help stop phishers from stealing personal and private information: visit the United States Computer Emergency Readiness site for more information or to report phishing.
Set spam filters on your email programs to help prevent and block bothersome spam from being delivered into your email inbox.
If you get an offer that seems too good to be true… yeah you guessed it: it IS. If you aren’t sure, do some research on the net. Snopes is a great site to use to help determine validity of claims, hoaxes and chain mail.
I was surprised to find myself immersed in an online poker game last night. When I say immersed, I mean that I had the crazed-eye-maniacal-don’t-bother-me look and was neglecting my children who were starving and waiting patiently for dinner (“Go eat a Pop Tart and be quiet! Mommy is concentrating!”)
Lemme ’splain:
I’ve always enjoyed playing card games and board games. Rummy Royal and Tripoli are some of my faves (they are similar in play). We lived in Germany when I was younger and one day my mom and I were bored to tears. We decided to look up “card games” in our Encyclopedia Britannica. We found instructions on how to play lots of new games. Nothing like playing cards for hours on a rainy afternoon!
Poker was never a game I got into though. I liked trying to collect the different hands (and still love to play Yahtzee based on this concept!) but found it frustrating that I was limited in the way cards were dealt and used. I didn’t know the basics behind the betting either and just kept betting money based on whims.
Today poker brings to mind the painting of Dogs Playing Poker or men in suits drinking martinis and smoking cigars in a back room with mafia-style security guards posted at the doors. Oh, that and people losing all of their money and – in even more extreme desperation – their kids’ college funds. Being on a tight budget, gambling and playing poker has never interested me.
But Noah, my very own Hotty-McHotterson, loves the game, so it was only natural for me to give it a shot so we could enjoy it together.
Now let me tell you the difference between me and my awesome man Noah when it comes to poker:
Him: He loves to play poker. He plays online. He’s been to Vegas. He owns BOOKS about poker.
Me: I know the difference between clubs and spades.
A few weeks ago I played Noah a few rounds of poker here at the house. Wow was it hard. It wasn’t the “start off with 5 cards and then you get as many as you want until someone gets a winning hand” sort of poker that I played as a kid.
Noooo. I got TWO cards and THEN had to put in chips just to stay in the game. What? How on earth can I bet on something I can’t even see? LAME.
I played a few rounds and lost quite miserably. (I guess that the fact that I can’t even shuffle a deck of cards properly should be a big sign that I’m card game impaired.)
I was surprised when a few days later Noah wanted me to play some poker with him online. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to help me learn and improve my skills or if he wanted to laugh at me and make fun of me.
We found a website with fun graphics and lots of rooms to play in. I got to pick out an avatar who has way better hair than me and waaay bigger boobs. (Not sure who was more happy about that, me or Noah.) Let the games begin!
If you are guessing that I lost every game, you are right.
I sorta had fun near the end once I got the hang of basing the rest of my game on the first two cards dealt. Apparently there are ten possible pairs of cards to start off with that raise your chances of winning a hand. They’re supposed to give you an idea of how successful you can be in the rest of the game. I was hardly dealt such pairs and ended up folding more than a laundry service worker.
So back to last night: I decided I’d go play online by myself since Noah was busy. My palms were sweaty and my heart was racing. It’s scary stuff playing against a stranger who may or may not be way better than you! But soon, betting some of my $1,000 in virtual poker chips became a rush beaten only by anticipation of a new Glee episode.
It was me and this guy from Italy (his avatar looks a lot like Sean Connery as James Bond complete with a martini and sexy cocked eyebrow) whose only chat responses were smiley faces.
We were head to head the first few rounds: I’d win, he’d win, I’d fold, he’d fold. But then it happened: A PAIR OF ACES! WHOOOO! I GOT A PAIR OF ACES! I knew I would have a good hand.
“Hahaha!” I cried out loud, yelling at Signore Italiano. “I have ACES! You will LOSE!” I waited with anticipation as the virtual dealer flipped out the remaining cards.
“OMG!” I screamed as another ace made its way to the table (and my children cowered in fear in the corner while nibbling on their meager supper of Pop Tarts). “TRIPLE ACES! MINE! MINE! YOUR MONEY IS ALL MINE!” I was happy that I’d soon be doubling up on my chips. I didn’t pay attention to (and didn’t care) what the other two cards were. I got excited and went “ALL IN.” For you poker virgins that means you are betting all of your chips that you have the best hand. I sat greedily waiting to snatch up my winnings.
But wait, what the… hey! Why are all the chips going to Signore!? Hey! HEY COMPUTER ERROR! NO, WAIT! STOP!!
I lost the hand? He beat my three aces!?!?!?!
Oh. Apparently he had a full house. And that beats three of a kind, even aces.
Well that was it. I was done. Beaten. I felt like I’d just lost a million dollars. All I really lost was a few minutes of my time and probably some of my kids’ respect but hey, it was fun while it lasted.
I’m trying to decide if I should play online again or not. Maybe I’ll stick to playing with Noah, although I’m not sure how healthy it is for our relationship. A “oh nice play honey” quickly turns into “I hate you @$!#^% )*^$@”
We could, however, always try that fun variation of poker with MUCH higher stakes: the kind that leave you wishing you’d worn LOTS of clothing layers or that you’d turned the heat up in your chilly house. *cough cough wink wink nudge nuge*
I admit it: I’m a bit of a grammar Nazi. It kicks in at its worst when I’m reading Facebook posts or Tweets and see the misuse of terms such as “your” and “you’re.” I’m more forgiving with “its” and “it’s” because even I will type out a sentence quickly and use lowercase or no hyphens or punctuations. But to tell someone “You’re house is on fire” is pretty much unacceptable and makes my teeth hurt.
It wasn’t too long ago on a drive home from Indiana to North Carolina that I noticed a sign on the side of the highway that got the better of me: “Speed strictly enforced by aircraft.”
Now, it might just be me, but isn’t that a bit of an error in predication? I mean, does an aircraft really ENFORCE the speed limit?
I looked around to see if there was indeed an airplane following me (there wasn’t). I was pretty sure I didn’t see any air craft make use of Romulan cloaking technology, appearing out of nowhere to issue a citation or zap and beam up speeders who zoomed 80 in a 55 MPH work zone.
I can see an aircraft assisting law enforcement officers who are enforcing the speed limit, but still do we citizens REALLY pay to have an aircraft fly over the highway – using up all that fuel – just to catch a few speeders?
Okay, I won’t nitpick on verbiage. Even if the signs did say “assist” instead of “enforce” I’d still make some snarky comment about helicopters, prop planes and jumbo jets pulling me over. What I found after some interweb-research is that some law enforcement agencies do indeed use air command to monitor speed limits (you know those white lines that cut across the highway? Yeah, well that’s part of the plan. If you make it from line A to line B too soon, then you’re probably speeding. And then a very nice officer will likely pull you over somewhere up ahead). We may not see this happening all the time in Happy Town USA population 2,000, but on major highways and interstates it’s a likelihood that the your speed limit is indeed enforced snitched on by monitored by aircraft.
I think it would have done better if the signs said, “Your Momma Knows You’re Speeding” or “Speed Limit Strictly Enforced By Lightning Bolts From Zeus.” Mmmaybe.
The other day my brother and I were talking about our old High School back in Germany. We thought that the school had closed down along with the local military base, but it hadn’t. I found the website and then signed up for the “Alumni” society. Soon I was browsing through a bunch of names, of which some I remembered and others I didn’t.
Soon I came across one name in particular that sounded super familiar. Wow – talk about a blast from the past! I’d just located my very first true-love boyfriend. Aww, isn’t that sweet?
I really liked this guy in my 14 ½ / 15-year-old crush kind of way, but even more so because he was one of the ‘popular’ guys and he liked ME! I’d kissed a few guys before (read: pecked on the cheek) and was hoping that he would kiss me soon after we’d passed the official note of “Do you want to go out with me? Yes, No, Maybe (pick one).”
One night, I had to babysit for a neighbor. My best friend went with me and we hung out for an hour or two when suddenly there was a knock at the door. Lo and behold, it was my ‘boyfriend’. Holy cow – good but not good. Apparently my friend had told him where we’d be for the night!
However, I was FORBIDDEN (under penalty of death) to invite guys over to any house where there was no adult supervision. The fact that he showed up at a house where I was babysitting was worse!
He left after a little bit, but the damage had been done. One of the little girls had seen him and proceeded to tell her parents that “the babysitter had a boyyy over.” Shortly after I returned home, the girls’ parents showed up at my door, demanding to know why I had a boy over. I did the only thing that 14 1/2- 15 year-olds do when they are in trouble, I lied. After all, I hadn’t really invited him over, and he only came in for about 10 minutes, honest!
My parents decided to hold a mini Spanish Inquisition and put me in one room, my BFF in another, and my boyfriend in the living room. In true FBI fashion they interrogated each of us. I was the only one who stuck to the story (thanks a lot, guys!). Long story short, I was grounded for weeks, wasn’t allowed to go to a concert that weekend, and I wasn’t allowed to talk to my boyfriend for daaayys. I don’t know how I survived.
I remember when he left that night – somehow I managed to walk him to the door. He stood there for a second and I knew, just knew, that this was it. Hopefully he’d lay a big one on me considering the fact I was facing lifetime incarceration. Perhaps he’d be moved by my pitiful and dejected look and figure a kiss was certainly in order.
In the awkward fashion that only 14 1/2 – 15 year-olds can pull off, he maneuvered himself to get a little closer. My heart was about to pound right out of my chest. I figured he must really like me if he was going to get some smootching action, which of course only solidifies the “going out” status. Oh, and he was sooo cute.
And then it happened. The worst thing that could ever happen to anyone about to be kissed.
I giggled.
And I couldn’t stop giggling. Not only did I feel suddenly very queer and very silly, but I suddenly realized that he had braces – the big gawky silver braces. Now, I’d heard stories of people getting stuck together while kissing with braces. I suppose at the time I should have realized that BOTH kissers had to have braces. But it never occurred to me that my naked pearly whites would definitely not become attached to his…
The visual I had in my mind of the two of us stuck suck-faced together, and my mother discovering us that way, well it was just too much. I tried my best to recover and stop laughing. But you KNOW when you try to stop laughing then it only gets worse. I still can’t control fits of unnecessary giggling.
I never did regain my composure, and the only action I got was a quick kiss on the cheek. Sigh.
We broke up a few weeks later since I had to move back to the states.
I never have kissed anyone with braces (and I really don’t plan to since I’m an adult now).
Back to my story. Guess who emailed me the other day, having found out my email address from my old High School? Yep, Mr. Braceface. He said my name sounded really familiar. I wonder if I should tell him I’m the girl who laughed at his attempt to kiss me.
Nah.
I wouldn’t think it was that difficult to mark a highway as NORTH or SOUTH bound, or EAST or WEST bound. But the confounded nincompoops that designed the beltline here in NC… well, I don’t know WHAT they were thinking.
What direction ARE you traveling in, exactly, when you are driving in a big circle? Make that two circles.
Today I found out that in Raleigh, you can go east and west and south all at the same time. Let me explain:
My directions to get to point “A” were to go SOUTH on the highway. Got that?
When I get to said highway, the only two options I have are East or West. NOT South. Sigh. I decided to take the “East” on-ramp, since the “to” city was the same as the directions.
I get on the highway with my intended exit in mind: 298A. However, I see that I’m at exit 15. Then 16. Then 17. Crapola. Does this mean I’m going the wrong way? I can’t imagine driving allll the way to exit 298! If the numbers had been counting down, I’d have been okay with it!
Just before I decided to get off of my East-bound path from exit 20-something, the upcoming exit number is suddenly 300. Then 299. I was excited. However, the highway sign now said that I was driving WEST. Wait, what? Wasn’t I just driving East!?!?!? At no time do I recall making a 180 turn in the middle of the highway to switch directions!!!
A little annoyed, I kept on going. If I could just get to exit 298A, I’d be happy. Success! I made it to my destination.
Now to get back home. I figured that since the original directions, which said “Go South (which is really East) meant that to get home, I’d go North, which should logically be West. However, since the highway I exited said I was driving West, I wondered if I should go East. Anyone following me? Yeah, the confused feeling you have is the same one I had.
I decided to take my chances and got on the Eastbound highway, which is where I started off on this crazy trip to begin with so it really SHOULDN’T have been right, but remember East is West is South is North. After all, the place where I’d driven to was located southwest of where I live. Made sense to me.
Didn’t work. I got on the highway from exit 298A hoping to see 299. To my dismay I saw that the upcoming exit was 297…296. Grr. Wrong way again!
I hopped off at the next exit, which was really a roundabout to get onto another highway… this time going South of course. Grr again. I drove about 3 miles before I was able to get off and turn around, going North back to the beltway. Grumble. Now which way did I just come from, was it East or West?
It didn’t matter, the exit signs that were upcoming were only for the Inner or Outer beltline. Not North, South, East OR West. GAH!!!
“A man must have designed this system” was the first thing to pop into my head, followed by a panic as I had about 30 seconds to pick which lane to get in! Inner or Outer!?
One of my options runs clockwise, or south-to-west, and the other runs counter-clockwise, or north-to-east. Or something like that.
I’m confused.
I picked the Inner beltline – innies always sound better than outies. I’m just sayin.
About a mile later, the entire road split – I could again go either North-East or North-West… I wasn’t sure exactly where I was located. Considering the fact that I was supposed to be on the same road I came in on, I don’t remember the road splitting at all! Thankfully, I stuck to the get-over-to-the-far-left lane and stayed on my highway. I think the other highway went to Alaska or something.
I finally made it home and checked out a map to see exactly what I did wrong. As far as I can tell, the roads I drove on today don’t even exist in this reality but rather some alternate universe that sucks in motorists unaware.
I’ve had a few conversations over the past two weeks which have made me stop and think about why I’m always on Facebook or Twitter (sorry blog, I’ve been cheating on you SO BAD.) What is it about these two social networking sites that have me hooked?
I’ve pondered a bit this morning (not too much because that would interrupt my tweeting and status updates) and I’ve come to a few conclusions:
1) As a single mom of two kids, my at-home conversations usually go something like this:
“Mom, guess what? I farted!” or “Mom, there’s this boy at school…” You can figure out which comment belongs to which child: the 7-year old boy or the 10-year old girl. As you can see, there isn’t much substance accompanying either of these conversation starters.
2) I grew up in the military (Army brat tyvm) and I’m lucky enough to have found several pals on Facebook from way back when. Facebook gives me the ability to keep in touch with these friends without writing lengthy emails all the time. Rather, I’m able to catch up on their life just by browsing their profile page, and I know they can do the same on mine (although I’m sure most of them skip over the silly stuff like “Mason just farted”). Facebook also allows me some downtime to embezzle in companies, rob banks and blackmail those in government positions (Hey, I’m talking about Mafia Wars!) or to work on planting fields and crops in FarmTown (a true aid for OCD as you can make those rows perfectly straight).
3) Sometimes I can’t put what I really want to say on Facebook. Maybe I don’t need a million replies or comments, but instead a spot to post a rant, rave or something funny that just popped into my head. Probably funnier to me than to everyone else but hey, I’m just sayin. Then there’s that pesky little problem with Facebook: My boss is my friend. Yes I know, that’s like, bad juju on Facebook. However, I tried to de-friend her once and blame the powers that be (must be a glitch) but she pitched SUCH a fit (it’s true) that I HAD to add her back. (Scroll through my posts and you’ll see her comment about kicking and screaming.) So now I have to keep my snarky work-related comments to myself and send them into outer space via Twitter.
So yeah, I may be throwing out random quotes or comments, but every time I update my status or send out a tweet, I sort of feel a strange connection to all those 450 friends on Facebook (I only *really* know about half of them…) who may or may not be able to sympathize or empathize with me. Maybe I’ll give someone a laugh or maybe someday I’ll post something truly poignant and world peace will follow.
And blogging? Well, I guess this is my way of ’sharing a bit more details for those of you who really care… (cricket chirping noises).
Or maybe I’m just having a grown-up (albeit one sided) conversation.
=)
Hey a new blog, whaddya know?