[REDACTED]: More Than a Book Review

As some of you may know, I recently took a week-long vacation. And it. Was. Awesome! I learned a little history, a little geography, a little about myself, and a lot about terrible horrible writing for which the author should be tried at The Hague.

You see, when I take a relaxing vacation, I like to bring along a book that's set in the city I'm visiting. It's fun to be able to see the actual settings of specific scenes and it helps bring the story to life...if the story has any life in it to begin with. This brings me to the book I read on my trip, [REDACTED]. I've decided not to actually name [REDACTED] here because, as a person who has attempted all kinds of different writing myself, I can appreciate the blood, sweat and tears that went into writing it, and I'd hate for the author to Google his or her "book" and find what I have to say about it.

I can't say it was the most awful thing I've ever read, because that honor will always, always belong to Pierre Drieu de la Rochelle's les Chiens de Paille, unless I someday decide to read something by Glenn Beck or Bill O'Reilly. Actually - no, scratch that, because if I ever find myself confronted with reading anything by one of those two, I really will literally kill myself. So yeah, it's always gonna be les Chiens de Paille. But this "book" is easily the second worst thing I've ever read. And I've read The Fountainhead too, so that's saying something!

The story was OK. It was a murder mystery, and I didn't know whodunit til the big reveal, which is something. Of course, that might be because I got so little actual information that I had no basis on which to hazard a guess. Or maybe it's because I did not care one iota about any of the characters, so I never bothered to wonder who did the murdering, though I did kinda wish the murderer would just randomly take everybody out with an M-16 so the last 100 pages or so could just be pictures of kittens. That would've been better.

You might be wondering why I bothered to finish the thing, and believe me, it's a question I often asked myself during that week. There were 2 reasons:
#1: I paid $2.99 for it and I couldn't get my money back.
#2: It was so badly written that it was hilarious.

I want to be very clear about the phrase "badly written", because this is important. I'm not talking about the plot, or the dialogue being unrealistic (even though a lot it TOTALLY WAS), or anything like that. I'm primarily talking about an author who couldn't be bothered to write any kind of transition whatsoever, so that everything in the book "seemed to happen suddenly". There were sentences like: "Suddenly she realized she no longer wanted to dust in the study, so she went to bed." Translation: "I AM BORED WITH THIS SCENE AND I ALREADY TOLD YOU WHAT I NEEDED YOU TO KNOW SO IT HAS SERVED ITS PURPOSE AND I'M GOING TO BED." My absolute favorite was the phrase: "Later she would wonder why she did what she did next, as there was no logic to her actions." SERIOUSLY? Translation: "I CAN'T BE BOTHERED TO THINK UP AN EXPLANATION FOR THIS EVEN THOUGH THAT IS THE VERY ESSENCE OF MY JOB AS A STORYTELLER AND BESIDES 'MURDER SHE WROTE' IS ON SO LET'S WRAP THIS UP!" When I read that sentence, I was thirty five thousand feet above Arkansas, and it was all I could do not to hit the Flight Attendant Call button and say, "Yeah, I need you to show me how to open the emergency exit door because I do not want to live in a world where I've paid $2.99 to read this sentence."

Thankfully I'd had the forethought to pay $11.99 (well spent!) on a Margaret Atwood novel before takeoff, so the second I finished [REDACTED], I could crack that one open and be reminded how English is supposed to work. And hopefully it will only take another week or two to heal all the welts on my head from banging it on cafe tables, park benches, walls, and passing seagulls in frustration as I plodded through that God-awful book. So please, people, learn from my experience: don't buy [REDACTED] ($2.99 on Kindle).

I Refuse to Not Be Apprehensive About the As-Yet Unmade Changes to Facebook

I know what you're thinking: "Another social media post?!?!" Well, YES, in fact. It is another social media post. Thanks for asking!

Part the First: I am Allowed to be Displeased

When f8 happened in late September, all the super hip in-the-knowsters popped up on Facebook, Twitter, G+...everywhere saying the same thing: "Uh-oh! They're making changes to Facebook! All the whiny ignoramii are going to complain! It's a FREE service! You don't get to complain about a FREE service!"

Pardon my French, but you're talking out your organic gluten-free naturally-sweetened with agave bean sprout cookie hole, you accursed hipster! Put on your argument-parsing skinnyjeans, cuz this just got real.

Point #1: Facebook makes changes/people complain.
Well, quite. People don't like change. It's just a fact. How would you feel if Bon Iver announced they were taking Britney Spears on as lead singer and going in a "new direction"? Pret-ty unhappy, I should guess. Still, congratulations on making a massively unoriginal observation about one of the most basic aspects of human nature.

Point #2: You can't complain about a free service.
Really? Because WELCOME TO AMERICA. I can complain about whatever the I want, and you can't stop me! Since when can we not complain about anything we didn't pay for? Have you ever heard of PBS? The selection of books at the local library? Or "the weather"? We're professional complainers and we're not about to stop now. More to the point, though, we do pay for Facebook with our personal data. And that is why we are allowed to raise holy hell about "real-time apps".

Part the Second: Go Ahead, Tell Me EVERYTHING.

Since I started blogging, I've come to realize that my personal interest in maintaining a modicum of privacy makes me unusual, at least among bloggers. I try to write things that are funny and true (insofar as my opinion is true-ly my opinion), but I'm never going to use this space to tell you allllllll about my job, or my personal relationships, or my bodily functions. And yet I have found that other (often more successful) bloggers make regular post-fodder of the sordid details of their sex lives, the minute-by-minute report of their run on a treadmill(!), or the "inside story" of what went on at the widget factory today. But even those people could easily be lying through their teeth. The woman who blogs anonymously about her filthy dirty sex with a string of rich, gorgeous men may very well be a fat man in his mother's basement. That treadmill run may never have taken place! And NOBODY KNOWS WHAT A WIDGET IS*!

*As it happens, this statement is not true after all

But that's the beauty of the internet - you can control your own brand! Put forth the image you want to portray! As long as you aren't doing so in a private chatroom with an underage correspondent, no harm no foul. But Facebook is about to DESTROY IT.

Let's say your Facebook profile currently looks like this:

Billy Bob McLaughlin
Male
Single
Interested in:
Women
Interests:
Music, Movies, Reading, Rock Climbing, Gaming, Car Repair
Favorite Books:
The Bible, Anything by Stephen King, Catch-22, Watership Down, Bridges of Madison County
Favorite Movies:
The Help, Forrest Gump, Das Boot, Rudy, Die Hard, Transformers
Favorite Music:
Radiohead, Bon Iver, The Shins, Coldplay, Kings of Convenience, James Taylor
Inspired By:
Jesus, Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama

C'mon, that's a pretty well-tailored profile. It's undersood that this is not a comprehensive list of EVERY little bit of entertainment you've ever consumed and/or enjoyed, but you've been allowed to curate it so that it reflects a certain image of you. And there's nothing wrong with that! This profile doesn't tell me everything there is to know about you, but it tells me that you're culturally literate, have a variety of interests, and are basically a normal person.

But with the new breed of "real-time apps", these days are gone. Now you won't just tell us what you want us to think you like; we're going to be privy to EXACTLY what you choose to do with your time, all the time. Like so:

Billy Bob McLaughlin
Male
Single
Interested in:
Women
---------------------------------------------------------------
Netflix, 1:15pm:
Billy Bob just watched 5 minutes of "Ho-Down in Hooter Hollow"

Kindle, 1:20pm:
Billy Bob is reading Vehicle Maintenance for Dummies

Kindle, 1:25pm:
Billy Bob just highlighted the following passage in Vehicle Maintenance for Dummies: "You have to manually retract the caliper piston" and added the following notation: "?!?!?!?"

Spotify, 2:00pm:
Billy Bob is listening to "You Make Me Feel (Like a Natural Woman)"

Amazon, 2:05pm:
Billy Bob has just purchased 2 tubes of NARS lipstick and a blonde wig

Netflix, 2:30pm:
Billy Bob just watched the same 5 minutes of "Ho-Down in Hooter Hollow"

Kindle, 2:35pm:
Billy Bob just downloaded a sample chapter of "How to Tell if You're Addicted to Porn"

Netflix, 2:37pm:
Billy Bob just watched 5 minutes of "Ho-Down in Hooter Hollow"

Foursquare, 3:15pm:
Billy Bob arrived for his 3:30pm appointment at North Fulton Hemorrhoid Specialists and unlocked a $5 coupon for his next Egregious Hemorrhoid Treatment!

Wells Fargo, 3:57pm:
Billy Bob has just overdrawn his checking account while attempting to pay a $450 charge at North Fulton Hemorrhoid Specialists :(

Amazon.com, 4:06pm:
Billy Bob used Amazon's new medical subscription service to arrange monthly delivery of a case of Preparation-H direct to his door!

Netflix, 4:15pm:
Billy Bob just watched 5 minutes of "Ho-Down in Hooter Hollow". AGAIN.

You take my point. There's nothing wrong with sharing as long as it's optional; linking other sites/apps to Facebook (by doing something as seemingly innocuous as clicking "Use Facebook to log in!") and letting them automatically broadcast my life from that moment forward is...not OK.

And lastly, a note to everyone who will inevitably say that Billy Bob should simply stop doing things he doesn't want other people to know about, I say this: If the choice is "stop watching porn" or "stop using Facebook", which option do you think will be most popular? Exactly.

Delivery: One Beating With a Baseball Bat. Please Sign Here.

Imagine if you will...

I've posted this on my blog. You, loyal reader, have come upon it by way of my Twitter feed, or your RSS reader, or an email someone sent you (Subject: Who Gave This Girl a Blog?!?!) with a link. In any case, you read over what I've written. And then you click your Farmville bookmark to navigate away, and this pops up...

Aw HELL no!

I bet you'd feel pretty insulted wouldn't you? Because "Kimberly Welsh has requested a read receipt..." is really code for "Kimberly Welsh doesn't trust you as far as she can throw you, and in order to stop you in your lying, cheating, stealing tracks, she wants you to acknowledge HERE AND NOW that you have read this blog post, so when she hounds you about it later, you can't get away with claiming you didn't see it! You big fat lying LIAR!"

I hate read receipts. They are the nasty nose-picking tattle-tales of the virtual playground. Seriously, if we're gonna be this immature, why not also add cooties to anti-virus searches? Because the sender is not sitting at their desk, staring intently at their screen, waiting eagerly to see that you have read their email. That read receipt is just gonna sit in a folder marked "Ammo I Can Use To Pressure, Annoy and Pester People" unless/until they feel compelled to use it as Exhibit A when you go on trial for failing to forward their chain letter to 35 people in the time allotted.

I know all too well that there are people in just about every workplace who blow off their responsibilities. But I don't believe that chasing them around with a piece of paper that says "Jim Bob read this email at 10:15am on September 3rd" is going to motivate them to change their evil ways. Meanwhile, when you attach a read receipt to every email you send, you are accusing literally ALL of your contacts of being lazy immature children who cannot be trusted to do their jobs. Every time you send a read receipt from now on, imagine that this is what comes up on the other person's screen:

(Substantially less headache-inducing when zoomed. Just a suggestion.)

Maybe then you will think twice.

How About I Occupy Your Face With My Fist?

If there's one thing I can't stand, it's a rotten joke that gets repeated ad infinitum by a bunch of people too lazy to figure out why it's not funny. I've talked before about my seething hatred for online comment forums, but I haven't yet learned not to read them, which is why I've spent most of my week reading coverage of the Occupy Wall Street protests, all of which is tailed by an endless stream of "Why don't they go occupy a JOB?"

HA ha ha ha ha! It was funny when a random assortment of 85-year olds said it the first time, and it's still funny when a bunch of bitter 40-year old idiots pick it up off their favorite FOX News commentator and repeat it to the amusement of their peers.

I don't usually relish ruining a joke, but this time...I'm OK with it. Here's why that sentence is not only unfunny, but completely ignorant: In the current economic situation, you can't just waltz into a job with a living wage and health care benefits. My personal experience with this would be enough - I have an excellent academic record including a Master's degree I completed with a 4.0 GPA. I have an excellent work record, glowing references from a variety of sources, fluency in a foreign language, decent social skills, certifications in a number of commonly used computer programs, a professional demeanor (no really - I do), and a positive attitude. Even with all that, it took me 3 years to find gainful full-time employment with health insurance and a living wage (a job I am both VERY fortunate and VERY grateful to have), and the only reason I got that job was because I happened to be temping there when someone decided to leave work and never come back. And I know lots of other people with good academic credentials (everything from science degrees to MBAs to PhDs), spotless employment histories, no criminal record, etc. etc. who have sent hundreds of resumes to no avail.

It's an employer's market, you see, and employers...how can I put this? Employers have lost their damn minds. I'll give you an example of the kind of thing an average job seeker faces in 2011...

Ann Q. Public has a Bachelor's degree in Chemical Engineering with a minor in English Literature. She graduated top of her class at Duke, was President of her sorority, and spent her summers interning at a variety of companies, including a pharmaceutical manufacturer and DuPont. Her references have nothing but good things to say about her, and she's a very personable young lady with a solid work ethic. She starts looking for jobs and sees the heading "Chemical Engineer" in her search. Imagine her surprise when she reads the rest...

CHEMICAL ENGINEER
Minimum 12 years experience overseeing a team of magical talking ferrets. Must be fluent in Farsi and Japanese. Submit letters from at least 3 references, one of whom must be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints licensed to practice veterinary medicine in the Kyrgyz Republic. Members of the US Olympic Badminton team will be given special consideration. Salary $20k. Include writing sample (award-winning short fiction ONLY) when applying online at www.youcan'thavethisjob.com. WE ARE AN EQUAL OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYER.

You think I'm kidding.

The thing is, there are so many desperate, unemployed people out there right now that they can demand any ridiculous thing they want, and they'll get so many applications that they probably will find their ideal candidate in there somewhere. And of course, they will then offer him or her FAR less money than he or she is worth, and they'll get a Nobel Prize winner at a bargain basement price because there are so few decent jobs out there. (NOTE: to be fair to the employers, part of the reason they'll offer a terrible salary and horrible benefits is because they don't have very much money to spend either. They would have a bigger budget, but they've committed over 30% of their total profit to their CEO's ridiculous, astronomical, and unnecessarily inflated salary and another 30% is earmarked for political donations to ensure that you never get any rights and the "corporations are people" model stays in place forever.) Oh - and just to be clear: $20k is not a living wage when gas prices are nearly $4/gallon, rates for water and electricity are rising, and food is getting more expensive (because of increased fuel costs). It's not. It's really, really not.

So if you're lucky enough to have a well-paid, secure job, then good for you. If you're a stay-at-home mom whose life is funded by her husband's well-paid, secure job, then congratulations (and I am very, very jealous). But if you haven't actually been one of the millions of people that has fought tooth and nail to survive in this economy, then stop making this ridiculous, preposterous "joke". I try to watch my language on this blog, but that kind of talk is bullshit, and it shows a complete and total lack of compassion.

I apologize for the total lack of humor in this post, but I'm getting really sick of being condescended to by people who don't understand what they're talking about. I'll try to be cheerier (or at least funnier) next time. Thanks for bearing with me.

Alice in Run-derland

I hate exercise. There, I said it.

I don't mind long walks, tennis games, Wii Fit or Chinese Fire Drills. Those things are fun. What I hate is the capital-E "Exercise" - the kind where you have to run a certain distance or swim for a certain length of time or whatever, all while monitoring your various bodily functions and vital signs. I didn't always hate capital-E "Exercise" quite this much. Once upon a time I only mildly disliked it, and even made occasional efforts to learn to like it. But then I dated a triathlete for a year, and I'm here to tell you: if you ever want to get to a point where you hate health and can't wait to blow up like Jabba the Hut and die, date a serious triathlete. Good Lord.

The thing is, a guy says he's a triathlete and you immediately think "That's HOT!" And it is...kind of. On the one hand, he probably will have a good-looking body, and if you go to races with him, you'll get to travel a bit and meet lots of new people. So that's nice. On the other hand, you will end up sharing your bedroom with a bicycle that is far more important to him than you will ever be, you'll be surrounded by piles of nasty sweat-soaked clothes, and sooner or later you will find yourself shivering beside an unfamiliar river at 5 in the morning while a group of strangers nearby give each other a detailed report of exactly what happened when they went into those Port-a-Potties moments before. Apparently this is just typical breeze-shooting among athletes. All the more reason to aspire to a sedentary lifestyle, if you ask me.

Anyway, before The Triathlete taught me the beauty of sitting still in air conditioned rooms, I periodically took a stab at athleticism myself. One of my favorite things to do was Fail to Run Races at Disney World. I should note that running races at Disney World is probably fun too, but I wouldn't know, as I only ever failed to run them. For a few years, I failed to run the Food & Wine Festival 10k. I would go down to Florida, walk the course (taking full advantage of the free food so bizarrely offered at the water stops), jog across the finish line and call it a resounding success. But then, one summer, I got incredibly light-headed and/or drunk and/or had a mildly psychotic episode and registered myself for the to Fail to Run the Disney World Half Marathon the following January. My brother signed up too, except that he ultimately Failed to Fail at it, but I guess he just didn't understand the object of the game.

Believe it or not, I was on track to Fail to Fail myself, except that I ended up with a 2-month long health issue in November and December, meaning there was no way I could run 13.1 miles in January. I opted, once again, to walk.

The thing about Disney races is that they are designed to be beginner-friendly, with lots of distractions along the way - photo ops with characters, courses that take you "behind the scenes" so you get to see some cool stuff, and of course the scenery. It's good of them to provide these things, and if you've trained appropriately, it makes for a REALLY cool, REALLY memorable race. On the other hand, if you're me (and you're barely prepared to walk to your mailbox), it makes it increasingly difficult to discern reality from hallucination. I remember seeing human-sized mice wearing bridal veils. I remember meeting Winnie the Pooh in a remote corner of a parking lot. I remember a woman bearing handfuls of melted Ghirardelli chocolate squares, which she shoved into my fists as I passed. I remember Captain Hook taking hostages on a Disney Cruise Line boat, again in a parking lot. But I couldn't tell you how much of this was real, and how much was my brain's attempt to ignore the fact that I was walking myself toward the cold, comforting arms of death. I find it a little disconcerting that they're now actively marketing this as a plus.

From the site for Disney's Princess Half Marathon, February 2012

This picture is like a bad acid flashback for me. I remember only too well the nightmarish blaring of the alligator's trumpet in my ear, the bizarre and inappropriate propositioning of the frog as I ran screaming from the castle, in which I was convinced I had just seen Cinderella hurling glass slippers at me. The waters rose up out of nowhere, and slowly closed in around me until I was trapped.

From the site for the Disney Wine and Dine Half-Marathon

And here, again, we see a hapless runner staring fixedly ahead, telling herself "THEY'RE NOT REAL! THEY'RE NOT REAL!" Living champagne bottles douse her with alcohol as a talking candle menacingly brandishes his flames at her booze-soaked leg. A clock and some napkins laugh and dance mockingly as Jackie Joyner Joan of Arc approaches. The horror!

While these photos may look completely fake, they are all too real to those of us who have Failed to Prepare for a Disney World Race. *shudder* Still, it's healthier than doing acid. 

(Seriously, though, if you're wanting to do a long-distance race for the first time, you should check out the Disney races. They're much more fun than just running endlessly on empty roads, which has been my experience with most other races. Not that I personally will ever race again, except in cases where there's only one cupcake left.)

Try to *Avoid* Saying Sad Things to Your Friend

One of the best things about having a blog is looking to see what search terms are driving traffic to your site. I think you're supposed to use that to gear your writing to an ever-growing audience for ad revenue purposes, but as this blog makes exactly no money whatsoever, I just use it to amuse myself. The main takeaways so far are that a lot of people loathe Gmail's "consider including" feature, but even more people loathe the Wizometer. This is particularly impressive when you consider the fact that the Gmail feature affects people all over the world and the Wizometer is specific to a local news station in Atlanta. And STILL more people hate the Wizometer! Are you listening, 11Alive? KILL THE WIZOMETER, PLEASE.

I digress.

Every now and again people find me using search terms that completely mystify me. I don't know why you would search for these things, and I really don't understand why Google thought you might need to read my blog, based on that search. But there were two recent searches that made me feel, well, guilty. I guess it's not my fault that Google led this hapless searcher to such a useless page, but I still feel that I've failed him or her by not providing the answers he or she clearly needed. I don't want to be responsible for the failure of a relationship, and if that searcher ever comes back, I want him or her to come away with something helpful. So here you go, searcher person! Say these things to your friend!

"Nice Things to Say to Your Friend"

• You look nice today!
• What zit?
• I bet nobody even notices.
• I only noticed because you pointed it out!
• It's AWESOME that you got cast in a Neil LaBute play!
• Look, somebody's gonna win the Nobel Prize for Literature - why not you?
• Here's $50.
• Your mother doesn't know what she's talking about.
• You're the wind beneath my wings.
• I already ordered a pitcher of margaritas.
• I would never have guessed this building was a converted Federal Prison building. Ooh, you have a fireplace!
• You're so right.
• Surprise! I submitted your name to "Extreme Home Makeover" and they picked you!

"Sad Things to Say to Your Friend"

• Justin Bieber has a girlfriend.
• I'm gonna need that $50 back.
• She says they're out of tequila.
• Your date had to cancel.
• Road trip! I packed carrots and lite beer!
• Surprise! I submitted your name to "Intervention"!
• They aren't gonna do another series of Peep Show*.

*This is just an example; they totally are gonna do another series of Peep Show. Don't cry.

A Poem About Punctuation. You're Welcome.

Commas are lovely, friendly things

They give your lengthy thinkings wings!

They help you make a long, long list

Or insert a "Well, you get the gist..."

 

My point is you should always use them

Never splice or else abuse them

And faithful friends you'll ever be

And I won't have to write any more bitchy poems to people who DON'T UNDERSTAND HOW EFFING COMMAS WORK. Refer to your notes from third grade. Figure it out.

Ring Ring! It's Pour Vous!

Hi there! How are you? I'm phoning it in, so you know I'm having fun! What what!

*Thoughtful PSA face* You know, a few weeks ago, for reasons too dull to mention, I was compelled to give up alcohol. Not permanently, but definitely for the next little while. I've been surprised at how many people express profound sympathy to me upon hearing this news - like I've lost a close friend or something. I just ordered a Diet Coke instead of a margarita, people. Calm the hell down.

Anyway, it got me thinking of all the things in my life that have improved since I ditched the booze. Sure, I effectively avoid hangovers and that weird, spongey, dry-lip feeling, but that's not all! I also always know where my clothes/phone/keys/remote control are in the morning! I've saved a bundle! I have more room in my fridge! But I think my favorite thing is that I never, ever have to write a day-after apology. You know, the one that goes a little something like this...

About Last Night.
If I...
...insulted you
...pointedly ignored you
...would NOT stop touching you
...told you all of my secrets
...told one of your secrets
...spilled your drink
...called you after midnight
...sent you a series of unintelligible emails
...texted you a Big Lebowski quote

Then...
...I'm sorry.
...you're better off, trust me.
...it's your own fault for wearing such a soft shirt.
...mum's the word!
...she's lying; I did NOT tell her that.
...you didn't need it.
...sorry!
...be grateful they were unintelligible. "zht os nw hot we get our story fea=tured pj P[hra." is better than what I meant to say.
..."This is what happens when you find a stranger in the Alps!"

Just sayin'.

Pippin' Myself to the Potty Post

POP QUIZ: When you go into the bathroom at your office, what do you spend most of your time in there doing?

Me, I like to use potty time for Purposeful Dancing and Soap Dispenser Fights. You might very well read that and say, "I neither dance nor fight with soap dispensers in public bathrooms!" And to that I say, "SHENANIGANS! How can you avoid these things?" But maybe your bathroom just isn't as hysterically awesome as mine. Let's find out. Here's what makes my office bathroom fun:

Purposeful Dances (2 Kinds):

1. Lights on! Our bathrooms have motion sensors on the lights, so when I'm working late or a lot of people are out of town, I sometimes walk into a pitch black potty environment. When this happens, I could get the lights to turn on by simply turning the corner toward the sinks 'n stalls. But I could also get the lights to turn on by ROCKING THE HELL OUT around the corner toward the sinks 'n stalls! Which would you do? Exactly. I've experimented with different styles here, and while disco is pretty fun, I'd have to give my highest recommendation to the sudden leap around the corner with arms stretched to the sky and index fingers pointed like guns. I call it "Let There Be Light".

2. The Mirror Vogue. (This is the least purposeful of the dances, but it gives you something to do while you wash your hands.) Mirrors are for dancing in front of - any ballerina will tell you that. But in a workplace environment, it's best to restrict mirror-dancing to a simple series of Vogues, so if anyone walks in, you can plausibly pretend to have been fixing your hair, yanking a stray eyelash, etc. I mean, you can get completely jiggy with it and cabbage patch your way to dry hands; I just don't recommend it. And since you're at work and need to stay sharp, I also recommend challenging yourself to Vogue to a song other than "Vogue". Try Men At Work's "Down Under" instead!

Speaking of washing your hands, if you were to use our bathrooms, you might find yourself engaged in a long and losing battle with a soap dispenser, as I did this very afternoon! Our soap dispensers, like our lights, have recently been connected to motion sensors, presumably because the effort of pressing down on a little circle was more than we could be expected to do. Actually, that may very well be the reasoning, since such a disturbing number of my coworkers are usually multitasking their way through a phone call while they are in the bathroom (Note to anyone who talks on the phone in a public bathroom: NO! *slaps your hand* BAD! *takes your phone away* NO!) Anyway, the soap dispenser at the far end of the sinks is not quite right. You put your hand under it, and nothing happens. You get impatient, pull your hand away...and it vomits up a little line of soap, which lands on the edge of the sink.

I encountered this for the first time today, and thought, "Oh well, I guess I'll just use a different sink. But I should clean up all that soap first." This is how you know I'm an idiot, because in order to wipe the soap off, I had to move my hand beneath the soap dispenser. Which triggered it to vomit out more soap. As soon as my hand moved out from underneath it. Like so:
ME: *wipes sink*
SOAP DISPENSER: *vomits*
ME: *wipes sink*
SOAP DISPENSER: *vomits*
...
After the third try, I reassessed the location of the sensor and twisted my wrist around so I could clean the sink without triggering the further dispensation of soap. And then, riding high on my triumph, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, grinning like a damn idiot, with a handful of soap-soiled paper towels, basking in the glory of my ONE triumph today: the defeat of a malfunctioning motion sensor.

And then I laughed really hard. Because I'm an idiot.

So yeah. Today I laughed at a soap dispenser until there were tears streaming down my face, and then I told the whole world about it. This is what I'm doing with my life now.

You Are Encouraged to Quote Me On That

For the last two Christmases, one of my best girlfriends has given me little quote-of-the-day calendars featuring quotes from famous/brilliant/funny/otherwise notable women. A lot of them are truly inspirational and/or entertaining, but every once in a while, there's one that's just kinda patronizing. Or too specific - having never had a single husband, it's hard for me to relate to the "none of my four husbands have had enough money to make me happy" genre. It's dangerous to let the quality of something like that slip, because this will inevitably lead to me thinking I could do it. And that's how I ended up wondering which great Kimberly Welsh truisms will someday be on just such a calendar. Here are the first ten; print 'em out before you have to pay $6.99 to buy them on tiny sheets of rippable paper!

Awesome/Helpful Sayings By Me, As Made Up Right This Very Second, With No Context Whatsoever

1. "Being a female writer is just like being a male writer, except you have to make a big show out of pretending to feel guilty if you eat a whole pizza."
2. "Purse dogs have it so easy. They don't even know."
3. "I just ate a TON of watermelon, and am not in any intestinal distress whatsoever. So I'm declaring that an urban myth and ordering everyone to keep their real or imagined intestinal distress to themselves in the future!"
4. "A person's laugh says a lot about them. For example, if you laugh like Snidely Whiplash, that says, 'I should stop laughing because it's disconcerting to those around me!'"
5. "There is no problem so great that it cannot be solved by a footlong mayo and provolone sandwich on french bread, washed down with a pint of NyQuil."
6. "Do you work in an inhumane cubicle environment? Why not try stabbing your eardrums with thumbtacks?"
7. "In the battle for the Most Adorable Version of the Twitter bird, Twitterrific has pecked out the eyeballs of its competition*!"
8. "I resent the implication that just because I am staggeringly gorgeous, I cannot also be funny."
9. "Sometimes people say things and I'm like, 'HUH?!?!?'"
10. "Soap is the worst breakup consolation gift. And yet two different people have presented me with soap on the occasion of two different breakups. What is that about? I mean, yeah, I was depressed, but I hadn't stopped bathing, for God's sake!"


*But Tweetcaster is a far superior application, just so we're clear.

The Kwerky Guide to... Car Service!

I’m writing this post in an actual car service center, so you know I’ve done my research this time. For once.

Until 2 years ago, the car I drove technically belonged to my parents. And since my parents are not complete morons, they also took responsibility for making sure it got all the necessary service in a timely manner. But then I bought a nearly-new car from them, and now I have to maintain it myself. I don’t mean I physically lie down on the ground and change oil - AS IF. I mean I do this:

Step 1: Realize you are roughly 1,000 miles overdue for whatever service you’re supposed to have. This step is crucial. If you don’t do this, you’ll never get to step 2. But don't worry - even if you miss it, you'll get helpful hints like your dad saying, "Hey - what's the mileage on your car now?" And then you'll say, "You're just asking because you think I don't KNOW because I'm not paying attention and it's overdue for service! I am an adult now, dad." (NOTE: you have no idea what the mileage is, but you're pretty sure it's waaaaaay overdue for service. It usually is.) Another helpful hint will be if your car explodes.

Step 2: Make an appointment for the appropriate service. You can do this one of 2 ways. The first is to call, which means you have to talk to a person, but it also means the appointment gets made pretty quickly. The second is to go online, which means you get to avoid talking to a person AND you get to yell at a computer AND the appointment may not even go through. Naturally, I opt for the latter option every time. Take this morning, for instance, when the booking software wasn’t working properly. The only way to get through the seven-step booking process was: complete step 1 --> go back to the home screen --> return to the booking screen --> complete steps 1 and 2 --> go back to the home screen --> return to the booking screen --> complete steps 1, 2, and 3 --> go back to the home screen... I booked an appointment 29 minutes from the time I started this process. By the time I confirmed it, I had 10 minutes to get to the service center. Web-based booking + my stubborn refusal to use telephones = Convenience!

Step 3: Argue with condescending jerks who aren’t listening to you. I might need to mention here that I’m a girl, though I realize some guys get similar treatment in these situations. And in addition to being a girl, I have the further disadvantage of having a decorative Georgia Tech plate on the front bumper of my car. It’s not mine; it’s a remnant from when the car belonged to my mom. But since I couldn’t care less one way or the other, it’s still there.

For those of you who don’t live in Georgia (or indeed in the US): Georgia Tech and the University of Georgia have a longstanding and very intense rivalry that I have never understood since it seems like UGA always wins the stupid football game which, as it happens, is another thing I don’t care about. But there is apparently a strictly enforced law stating that every mechanic or “Car Service Advisor” in the state has to be a UGA fan. Lucky me.

So when I pull into the service center bay, I’m greeted by my friendly Car Service Advisor, and the conversation goes a little something like this...

HIM: Good morning!

ME: Morning!

HIM: What can we do for you today?

ME: I have a 10:30 appointment for...

HIM: WHOA! Let me guess! You came in to have that nasty Tech plate taken off, right? Heh heh heh. We can take care of that for you.

ME: Yeah, ha ha. No, actually, I came in for an oil change. I have an appointment. 10:30? Under “Welsh”?

HIM: OK, yeah. We’ll do you an oil change...and we can replace that Tech plate with a UGA plate at no additional charge.

ME: No thanks.

HIM: If you leave the Tech plate on there, we might have to charge you extra! Ha ha!

ME: Actually, that’s my mom’s. I graduated from UGA.

HIM: Oh yeah? GO DAWGS!

ME: Right. I don’t care about football. I just need my oil changed, PLEASE. And I was also wondering if you could clean the air ducts? Terrifying demons sometimes come out of the vents and spit acid on my face*.

HIM: Oh yeah. Uh-huh, sure, we can do that. And we’ll put a UGA tag on the front free of charge!

*Obviously I’ve never had this exact problem - my car's maker is known for its commitment to demonic possession-resistance - but I usually have some additional request, ranging from a car wash to getting the front seats vacuumed to having them change the actual, state-issued, DMV license plate on the back bumper. My point here is that it doesn’t matter what I said, because he hasn’t heard a word of it.

At this point, it’s time to sigh loudly and follow him into the office part for the hard sell.

HIM: It says here you haven’t gotten your [insert any number here]-mile check yet!

ME: Indeed I have not.

HIM: Did you want to do that today? Here’s a list of the services included [hands me a volume roughly the length of Gone With the Wind, but mostly including things like “Test Bass Levels in Speakers” and “Polish Shift Nob”].

ME: Uh-huh. And how much is that?

HIM: $300.

ME: That’s OK.

HIM: [Makes Disappointed Paternal Face at me, even though he’s at least 2 years my junior.] Really? Because it’s pretty important. If you don’t get this service, there is a very real risk that your car will spontaneously disassemble itself in the middle of a busy intersection during rush hour. What if that happens on a day when you have an appointment to get your nails done? Or your roots touched up?

ME: I’m willing to take that chance.

I always say something relatively polite, but what I'd like to say is: “Really? This car that your company makes and sells is such a massive piece of crap that you are absolutely certain that even now it is developing a serious issue that will inconvenience and possibly kill me? It’s THAT bad? I mean, it’s not even 5 years old, it has well under 50,000 miles on it, your technicians are the ONLY people who have ever touched the engine, and even so, you have zero confidence in its ability to safely convey me from here to the street? Wow, what a horrible piece of unreliable junk! Don’t worry; I’ll notify the Better Business Bureau that your employer is knowingly selling lemons. Alternatively, you could just do what I asked you to do and stop trying to scaremonger your way into a commission.” But I digress [often and with great enthusiasm].

HIM: [Sighing with grave concern for my safety] Alright, if you’re sure. So just an oil change. That comes to...

ME: ...an oil change AND an exorcism, remember? The acid-spitting demons? I mentioned them outside not 3 minutes ago?

HIM: Oh right, and the exorcism. Oil change and an exorcism...$50. Should be about an hour.

ME: Great.

Step 4: The waiting room. I actually really like car service waiting rooms. They're generally pretty quiet, they almost all have wifi now, and there's free coffee! Sometimes doughnuts too! It's like Starbucks minus the obnoxious yuppies! I get a lot of writing done in car service waiting rooms.

Step 5: Coughing up. This is the part where the same guy you argued with before takes you back to his little stand-up desk. He could say any number of things - he might let you off scot-free, might try to convince you there's more work to be done, might try to sell you an entirely different car. Your job here is to firmly but politely extend your card and continue to hold it in his face until he swipes it through the damn reader and gives you the keys.

Step 6: Car Hunt! Your car will have been parked somewhere on the premises of this here car dealership, which is basically like a huge parking lot except that it has a much higher than average percentage of "cars that look exactly like yours". (Always wear comfortable shoes). Once you find your car, it's time to assess the work. You have to take their word for it that the oil was changed, but what about the demons? Are they gone? Get in, turn the key and find out! Ah, I can almost hear the acid burning through your face right now. But I bet you don't have a Tech plate on the front bumper anymore, do you? It's all about priorities.

(I would like to stress that my car is well looked-after, contrary to what you might think based on the above. It's just that all the real services they perform at various mileages are things I get done regularly at non-dealership locations. I do endorse regular maintenance and preventive care. I just don't take kindly to commissioned salesmen foisting unnecessary, overpriced car care at me.)

Note to Self: How To Vacate The Premises

It is now mid-July, the traditional time of year for getting the hell out of Dodge, and I have so far made not one but two failed attempts to do so. In both cases, I  did technically leave, but that's about the only thing I did right. If it had only happened once, I'd say fair enough, we all make mistakes. Now that I've done it twice, it's time for some tough love. I need to spell this out for myself, as if I were 5.

#1: LEAVE.
The much-vaunted "staycation", so often cited as a wonderful option in the current economic climate, is a myth. It does not exist. If you "stay", you will not manage to "cation". Period. Ants will appear in the cat food bowl and you'll lose a whole day to "staying", certainly, but also "waiting for the pest control man to show up between 8 and 5". That is not a "cation", by any definition of that half-word. Or maybe you don't have a cat, which is why your car battery will die. Or maybe you don't drive, in which case: I hope you get over that nasty case of strep throat quickly! Or maybe you are the picture of health. Congratulations! You have a week off and you're ready to take on the world! Oh - except that you had to tell some little white lies to a few people so you could get out of certain social obligations, and now you get to think twice (or many more times than that) before leaving the house, visiting favorite haunts, or saying anything on social media that might make it clear that you aren't, in fact, at a funeral. Enjoy!

All I'm saying is I've done the research in my own lab, and the only way you will manage to forget all the crap that irritates you on a daily basis is to put as much physical distance between it and yourself as humanly possible. And don't stay with friends or family either. Go somewhere with a housekeeping staff, for God's sake.

#2. Travel with no more than one (1) other person with whom you share no DNA.
I have a great family, I really do. They're funny and smart and supportive and amazing. But I don't need to bring 32 years of love, heartache, resentments, arguments, losses, triumphs, memories, and other assorted drama on vacation; that's what Christmas is for. What I need to bring on vacation is my Kindle, my iPod, and a valid ID for booze acquisition. Of course, it can sometimes be fun to travel with a friend or significant other, but it's important to do your due diligence before buying those non-refundable tickets! To help you out, I've made a handy-dandy flowchart. Follow teal lines to answer yes, maroon lines to answer no.

(click to enlarge)

I've had some major successes and minor flops following the above advice, but at least you know it will prevent any major flops. Of course, you'll still have issues of mix tapes and how much Mexican food constitutes "too much Mexican food", but you'll just have to use your common sense to resolve those. Alternatively, you could...

#3. Go alone.
I've never traveled solo, but it seems like a more attractive option with each passing year. And since my latest return from a frazzled, nonstop, crammed-car FAILcation, I've taken an interest in the corner of the travel market geared toward people like me - hip, happening, childless thirtysomethings who need to unwind! From what I've seen, the places that cater to my niche fall into three categories:
a) Healthy Low-Fat Spa Retreats on beaches or, more commonly, in deserts. If you care about this category, you're reading the wrong blog. Eating twigs in the desert is NOT a vacation. Next!
b) Couples-friendly Resorts. Ugh. As you might have guessed by the name, this place is basically aimed at baby-talking kissy-faced couples. They have a wide variety of accommodations, and they all have names like "Romeo & Juliet Suite", "Tristan & Isolde Suite", "Harry & Sally Suite", or "Cupid's Poison Arrow Lovesick Vomitorium". I mean, I probably could enjoy myself at one of these places...provided I plucked my eyeballs out with thumbtacks and crammed whole quilts into my ears before the plane made its final descent.
c) Singles-friendly Resorts. OH DEAR GOD. Judging by their websites, these places are built on the premise that all single adults have the following things in common:

• We are exhibitionist nymphomaniacs who want to spend our evenings playing live game shows with names like "America's Next Top Anal Porn Star"
• We don't much care about food, so long as there is a LOT of booze around
• When we aren't having casual sex, we need a wide variety of clichéd vacation activities like parasailing and mountain biking, presumably so we never have a moment to feel old and alone (which is the only thing we really have in common, or so think the PR people)
• We still think we're on MTV's Spring Break 1991

As with the second category, you might think I could go to one of these places and just refrain from participating in that which does not interest me. But every time I try to envision it, I see a week's worth of me sitting at a beach or by a pool, reading a book while being interrupted every 5 minutes by some person or group of persons propositioning me either for sex or to round out an Ultimate Frisbee Team, both of which sound equally unappealing. Then I would go back to my room in the evening and be kept up all night by the strange and disturbing sounds in literally every adjoining room. No thanks. 

Why isn't there a 4th category? Like The Quiet, Child-Free Resort for People Who Just Want to Read, Sleep, Get Drunk, and Be Left The Hell Alone? Instead of a name like "Hedonism", you could call it "Retired Librarians"! I guarantee you I would go there every year for a month.

The Kwerky Guide to...Dog Ownership!

I've been working on an "About Me" page for 4 weeks now, but making no progress whatsoever. Had I been a little more dedicated to that project, you would already know that I have a cat, and that I used to have a dog...until she passed away 2 years ago. To give you some idea of how nauseatingly much I loved my dog: her name was Sunshine.

You are my Sunshiiiiiine, My only Sunshiiiiiiine...

I make a point of telling you how much I loved my dog because you will probably doubt my love for her when I tell you that throughout her life, I consistently and continuously made the heartless, soulless, horrific, abusive choice always to keep her on a leash when she wasn't in her own yard.

Oh wait - did I say "heartless, soulless, horrific, abusive..."? I meant to say "responsible, safe, potentially life-saving, entirely-BECAUSE-I-loved-her...".

Let me walk you through my thought process on this: "Hm. Sunshine is very sweet, and pretty smart, but she does not understand how cars work, or that there are evil people in the world who might want to hurt her, or that some other dogs are not friendly and well-intentioned. As I do understand these things, and don't want her to fall victim to any of them, and live in an urban area where all are plentiful, I need to find some way to tether her to myself so that I can be in charge of any car-, person-, or other dog-related decision-making. BUT HOW?!?!?"

Me 'n Sunshine at the beach, 2005. I'm the one holding the LEASH.

Sunshine in the snow, 2008. Sorry if the LEASH ruins the picture.

Obviously, some dogs don't need leashes, depending on their level of obedience and/or where they live -  if you live on a farm in the country, that's one thing. But here in the land of highways and shopping malls, there are leash laws. For a reason. Even so, my neighborhood has recently seen a marked increase in people who buy wallet-sized dogs and categorically refuse to restrain them in any way, shape or form.

THIS DRIVES ME INSANE.

They are forever darting out of open gates, racing across busy roads, and evacuating their digestive tracts all over the place. This is not how we own dogs, people. It just isn't. And my patience with this reached its ultimate end last night, when I found myself charged with an unexpected houseguest.

Who you callin' Scruffy?

Scruffy here was wandering around along a busy street when I went to get my pizza last night. When he narrowly missed being flattened by the car in front of me, he was invited to join me on the pizza run.

Who DOESN'T want to go on a pizza run?

Fortunately, Scruffy is very well-looked after, has a tag with a phone number on it, and is so well-behaved it's absurd, so I'm sure he will be home safely as soon as his family calls me back. In the meantime, I am back in the dog-owning game! I couldn't bear to part with Sunshine's LEASH after she died, so I've been using that to walk him. And I find it ironic that even though I am technically not a dog owner at all, I'm still the most responsible dog owner in this neighborhood. But now I have better ammo against the idiots. Take last night's pre-bedtime potty run, for example:

A dog comes running into the dog walk, seemingly unaccompanied, and races at Scruffy and I. A few seconds later, a drunk, half-naked frat boy wanders out after him, half-heartedly apologizing and saying, "Stop. Peanut*. No. Come back. Seriously, come back. Peanut, come back." To the surprise of absolutely no one whatsoever, this was ineffective. It seems Peanut needs to review his lessons for the slurred "Seriously, come back" command. He was supposed to think, "Hark! My Master has summoned me back to him, and is apologizing to this unfamiliar human for reasons I don't yet understand! I'd best return to his side and await further instruction!" Instead, he thought, "I'M A DOG! THIS IS ANOTHER DOG! I SMELL PEE! LET'S BARK!" But he and Scruffy were getting along fine, so I didn't create any drama that would upset them. When Frat Boy finally realized his drunk ass was gonna have to come over and GET the dog, he walked up and said, "It's OK - he's really friendly." I put on my most vacant expression (ACTRESS POWER!), looked him in the eye and said, "He seems like it! I just found this dog on the road, so I don't know if he's friendly or not. Actually - you're a dog owner and I'm not, so maybe you can help me? His fur is so white that I can't tell - IS he frothing at the mouth? I noticed he didn't have a rabies tag..." Exeunt Frat Boy, pursued by the thought that his irresponsible behavior might have consequences.
*Dog's name has been changed, as it's not his fault he's with Stupid.


Of course this also illustrates my other point, which is that obedience training has come a long way since Sunshine was a puppy. We only taught her (OK fine: tried to teach her) the usual boring stuff like "sit", "stay", "come", and "heel"*. But based on what I've seen lately, today's dogs are learning PhD-level obedience, featuring commands such as:

"CHILL."
"Where are you going? Don't go over there. I said stop. Come on!"
"Leave that dog alone. You don't know that dog! Why are you doing this?"
"Get out of my face; I'm on the phone."

If only "CHILL" had been a command while I still had Sunshine. Things would've been so much easier.
*Note: she never truly mastered any of these, but it wasn't much of a problem since you can make a dog do whatever you want...so long as it's on a LEASH.


But I can't say I've ever seen any of these commands work effectively. The dogs just seem really confused. For that matter, so do the people. Their dogs literally never do what they're supposed to do, when they're supposed to do it, where they're supposed to do it. And these people are at their wits' end! How can they guarantee their pets' safety and security if they can't keep them from darting out into traffic, or frolicking with potentially rabid playmates? If you are struggling with these issues, then this post was for you. I have the answer you've been looking for:

$2.14 on amazon.com. Seriously. I will buy the damn thing FOR you.

If you get one of these handy contraptions, all of your problems will be solved! Peanut CAN'T dart into traffic without your permission! You can maneuver him out of the path of rabid strays! And you can funnel your beer, break up with your girlfriend on the phone, or puke drunkenly into the bushes without worrying that you might turn around to find that your pet/accessory has vanished! And perhaps most importantly: you can avoid unsightly welts. Because once Scruffy's family has fetched him, I'm going to start carrying the LEASH around with me all the time. And if I catch you pulling this unleashed-dog nonsense again, I might just whip you with it.

Apologies for grouchiness and/or disjointed writing. Unfamiliar dog = very little sleep, no matter how well-behaved he is.

Don't Panic!

I've recently learned that in 2012, Comet Elenin will reverse polarity on Earth and also cause some earthquakes. Or was it a giant tidal wave? The details were a little fuzzy, so I googled it. Of the results, I figured a site called Above Top Secret sounded the most promising. Unfortunately, it didn’t load properly. Fortunately, it had the most amazingly customized 404 error page I have ever seen:

C'mon, that's fantastic. It's worth looking at the whole site too, because...well, you're not going to get better entertainment than that. Not for free, anyway.

Sometimes Pizza is the Better Choice

More often than not, I leave work on Improv Practice Day (more commonly known as “Wednesday”) and find myself faced with the daunting combination of nothing edible in my home and two measly hours before I have to leave for the theatre. Preferring to focus on the positive, I see this as “a perfect excuse to eat fast food for dinner” instead of “a sad commentary on a grown woman who can’t take care of herself properly”. But when it happened last week, I didn’t feel inclined to have pizza or Taco Hell or a mostly-cheese “vegetarian” sandwich. Instead, I had a brilliant idea. BRILLIANT, I tell you: frozen yogurt! It’s cheap, it’s low-fat but high-calcium, and apparently it contains “live and active cultures”, which are on the list of Trendy Things We’re All Supposed to Consume in Huge Quantities. So I stopped at Yogli Mogli (which, in case you were wondering, is exactly like Yoforia, Slimberry, Pinkberry, Menchie’s, Swirll, Cow Licks, Cloud 9, Yorika, Yogurtland, and The Yogurt Tap) (except Cloud 9 also has cupcakes), and as I drove home with the increasingly less-frozen yogurt in my cupholder, I thought, “I bet I could come up with at least…

10 Excellent Reasons Why I’m Never Allowed to Have Frozen Yogurt for Pre-Improv Practice Dinner Ever Again

1. No good comes of putting 7-year olds in charge. The 7-year old me, who makes most of my decisions, COULD NOT imagine a better dinner than this! But when you walk into a place called “Yogli Mogli” as an adult in business attire, you become acutely aware of just how not 7 you are. The only way you’re getting away with it is if you brought a 7-year old with you. And I’m pretty sure the daycare place doesn’t loan them out.

2. That 20 minute drive never takes 20 minutes. Sometimes I can get home from work in 20 minutes, but never on days when I need to. I should’ve known that putting anything frozen in the car would up the commute to at least 45 minutes. Lesson learned.

3. Panic attacks. 7-year old me may not care about the car upholstery, but 32-year old me cares very deeply about the car upholstery, so I spent most of the drive home glancing anxiously at the cupholder, waiting for it to spew forth melted yogurt at every stop, start, or turn. Of which there were plenty. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life.

4. It’s so, so sad. Sure, they have non-fat fruit-based options and sorbets and fresh fruit toppings, but I’m not in the target market for that. Chocolate yogurt + candy + more candy + hot fudge sauce = what I had. That is not dinner. It sounded like a good idea at first, but once you’re in line between two 12-year olds, spooning M&Ms onto your “dinner” in your work clothes, the word “sad” begins to suggest itself.

5. The Inevitable Sugar Crash. When you eat candy for dinner, you’re about 2 hours away from a nap. And if that’s right around the time you’re supposed to be rushing a stage every 5 minutes to vie for a spot in a scene…it doesn’t work.

6. The Internal Mom Voice. To whatever extent this could ever have been a fun experience, it was ruined by the responsible voice in my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother. An endless loop of “Young lady, you know very well that you are not allowed to have frozen yogurt for dinner!” will buzzkill the whole thing. Even 7-year old me was starting to feel guilty about it towards the end.

…but I was wrong; I could only come up with 6.  

I'm Just Not That Into You

You know what really honks me off? When guys try to give me unsolicited relationship advice. I'm sure it sounds like a very unlikely problem to have, but that just proves you know nothing about my life. Because I get a lot of unsolicited relationship advice from guys. A lot.

I first noticed the problem a few months ago, while talking to a guy I had known for roughly 10 minutes. We were going to be working together, so we were chatting and trying to establish a rapport. And then this happened...

ME: It's hard to meet people, though. There aren't that many good guys out there!

HIM: Yes there are! You're just too picky, that's your problem. You have guys falling all over themselves trying to get with you, and you reject them because they're too this or too that. All your dating problems would be solved if you'd just give them a chance!

ME: (stunned silence)

I'd like to stress that I'd known this guy for 10 minutes. Literally. And in that 600 fleeting seconds, not one guy had interrupted us to throw himself at my feet, nor had there been a single instance of me waving my hand dismissively at a perfectly good prospect while yelling "BLECH! Get him out of my sight!" So I will be forever baffled by this perfect stranger's ability to get to the root of a years-old problem in a matter of seconds and with no evidence to support his position whatsoever.

Except of course that I'm not baffled at all. Because he was doing what all guys seem to be doing: projecting their relationship issues and every rejection they've ever suffered onto me. There are women all over the world walking around without a care in the world while I listen to the charges against them being read over and over. It's the same reason I've been told I should give fat guys, old guys, smokers, convicted felons, frat boys, guys 10 years my junior, divorcés, and Republicans a chance: because invariably, the guy doling out these pearls of wisdom is (or perceives himself to be): fat, old, a smoker, a convicted felon, a frat guy, 10 years younger than me, divorced, or a Republican. And that's fine. But he has to understand that him thinking he knows why I'm not interested is not the same as him knowing why I'm not interested. For example:

Let's say there's a guy who's overweight, watches Jersey Shore, collects football jerseys, and listens to Jason Mraz. And he says I should "give fat guys a chance". Fine, maybe I should. For all he knows, maybe I do. But I can think of three other Very Good Reasons not to date this particular guy, and his extemporaneous persuasive speech on Why I Should Sleep With Him has failed to address any of them. Naturally, he will walk away thinking I am biased against overweight people. And if that helps him cope with the rejection, that's fair enough. But I'll tell you this much: excess weight can be lost. Jersey Shore is forever.

Why is it not OK that I'm just not interested? I've certainly had my share of rejections, and 100% of them have been related, on some level, to the guy simply not being interested. That's not fun or pleasant, and sure it hurts, but it's a sufficient excuse. I don't have to make it into a deep psychological issue on his end. And I certainly don't go up to every subsequent guy that turns my head saying, "You know what your problem is? You reject a girl even if she's only been charged with prostitution once, and even if the charges were dropped on the grounds of entrapment!"

The thing is, attraction is a very inexact science. In my case, I find that if I look at a guy and say, "Wow. That is a WEIRD-looking dude," I can safely estimate that I'll have a crush on him within a week. I don't know why. And yes, "nice guys" of the world, it is entirely true that just being a nice guy is not enough to get you a date. But as a public service, I'll also let you in on a little secret: the more you use the phrase "nice guy" to describe yourself, the more suspicious women become that you are in fact NOT a nice guy at all, but rather a very very bitter guy who feels that you are entitled to the undying love of a supermodel on the grounds of your "nice"-ness. It has not escaped my notice that most guys who list themselves as such on dating sites also have the same ridiculous list of "What I'm Looking For" requirements as their presumably less-nice counterparts: Slender, at least 8 years younger than they are, never married, no kids, preferably blonde, etc. Call me crazy, but I'd bet that he just eliminated an awful lot of "nice girls" in one fell swoop.

And that's the thing, guys-who-want-to-give-me-unnecessarily-aggressive-dating-advice: you've probably been guilty of passing over someone for a superficial reason at some point. We've all done it, we've all been the victim of it, and we've all continued to do it anyway. It's not you, it's me. No wait - it's not me, it's you. No wait, it's not you or me; it's just that I don't like you like that. Move on. 

Sort of a Meta-Post Thing

That last post is, like, the 3rd time I've attempted to ask the internet why people in cars honk at people walking on sidewalks. The internet STILL won't answer me. Fine. I get it: people who honk at walkers are not internet-savvy. I suspected as much. At least now I know I can call them "rude fucking morons" with impunity, since they can't read.

Today is June 3rd. Not January 6, 2010. I don't know why the blog says every post was added January 6, 2010. It wasn't, and it bothers me that it says that, but I'm WAY too lazy to learn how to fix it. So now you know.