Crimes Against Suspension of Disbelief

Forgive me, Twitter followers, for I have sinned. I have become utterly and completely obsessed with the #hemyneumantrial, and have subjected you to weeks of endless prattling on about it, though the vast majority of you probably didn't give a crap. But now the trial is over, which means that you won't have to hear about it anymore. Unless there's an appeal. Or unless more information comes out. Or unless you keep reading this post, because I'm about to give you...

My Review of "EVERYBODY Has to Stand Up: the #hemyneumantrial" brought to you by Nyquil: the trial time sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever, so you can snooze right through relevant testimony before deciding a man's fate medicine!

by Kimberly Welsh, Exaggeratress in Chief

February 2012 saw the beginning of one of the most gripping dramatic web series murder trials in recent memory. Hemy Neuman was being tried for the November 18, 2010 murder of Rusty Sneiderman, a shooting which took place in the parking lot of Dunwoody Day Care just after Rusty had dropped his son off for the day. In the intervening year and a half, the community at large had learned that Neuman was Sneiderman's wife's boss (draw a diagram if you need to), and that he and Mrs. Sneiderman were potentially having an affair. Now that you're caught up on the background, let's look at the trial itself...

Leaving aside necessarily poor production values and disappointingly conservative camera work, the biggest obstacle between this trial and greatness was its inconsistency. Indeed, I believe this will be held up for generations to come as an example of what happens when two conflicting production teams are left to bicker over the same project, though we must give credit where credit is due - Judge Gregory Adams' direction was a valiant attempt at fluidity and effective pacing. District Attorney James and Assistant DA Geary handled Act I ("State's Evidence") and Act III, Scene 1 ("Prosecution's Rebuttal: the Revenge") with dignity and aplomb, giving them the feel of an expertly edited documentary. I attribute this to the fact that, by and large, they took the courageous risk of using real people who were telling the truth to tell their story. The notable exception here is, of course, Andrea Sneiderman (née Greenberg and hereafter referred to as such because it irritates me to use the same name for her and the innocent victim) with her scenery-chewing Bobble-Headed Unsympathetic Confrontational Sarcasm™ approach to her role, but the DA made even this dramatic abomination fit, through a graceful and seamless mise-en-abîme, by which the very fact that she was acting paradoxically added to the realism of the other testimony. Honestly, the only other fault I find with this portion was the ham-handed advertisement for Coldwell Banker on the witness stand - highly incongruous, in an otherwise very serious scene.

But in Act II ("Defense Evidence"), viewers were subjected to a jarring shift in tone, from the world of the sober, truthful documentary to a parade of spinning pyrotechnics and flashing lasers, framing a tale of passion, 12-foot demons in the guise of 80s pop culture icons, domestic violence, globe-trotting, and the sordid story of two people who made the perverse decision to watch "The Goodbye Girl" voluntarily! At times, I wondered if this was indeed the same mini-series murder trial! At best it was confusing, and for most viewers it proved downright disorienting. In addition to the lack of continuity, a remarkably inept casting made this portion all but unwatchable! I must've heard acting teachers say it a hundred times: if you cannot actually make tears come out of your eyes, DO NOT ATTEMPT A FAKE CRY ON STAGE! And if I ever doubted the wisdom in that, there was no shortage of poorly-acted defense witness testimony to drive home its point. Meanwhile, the majority of the witnesses called to testify on behalf of the defense came across as confrontational, indignant, arrogant, and (in some applicable cases) utterly biased and unprofessional. Overall, it was a disappointing mishmash that meandered aimlessly, though I would be remiss if I failed to acknowledge Dr. Marx's brilliant comic turn in Scene Two ("Cross Examination"). Well done, Dr. Marx!

What we saw in Act III was largely more of the same - gritty, believable reality from the Prosecution and an imaginatively written but poorly acted psychological thriller from the Defense. Act IV brought significantly more drama as the action mounted to its climax. The monologue of Attorney Doug Peters was difficult to watch, owing to the frustration of seeing a clearly accomplished performer with great potential so harshly constrained by the gaping holes in the plot he must advance. Thus it was ultimately District Attorney Robert James who stole what was left of the show after Andrea Greenberg's jaw-dropping performance. His speech, and his visual aids, were set to reveal the surprise ending: this was not a psychological thriller or a true-crime reality show, but an honest-to-God murder trial.

A man is dead. And all the belligerent witnesses, fanciful demons, and friendly Coldwell Banker agents in the world can't change that fact. I honestly think most of the people who watched this trial so obsessively (like me) did so because we were so appalled that anyone would expect Neuman's story to be taken seriously - that's what was funny. The death of Rusty Sneiderman wasn't funny. At all.

In his statement at sentencing, Hemy Neuman began by saying that no one had won; "everybody lost". I can certainly see where he was going with that, and there's no doubt he was standing in a room full of sad people, all of whom had lost something. But Rusty had lost more than anyone else, and there was only one thing anyone could still offer him: justice. And his family, with the help of the DA and his team, got that for him. It's a hollow victory, to be sure. But actually, Hemy: Rusty won.

So rest in peace, Rusty. And rest in peace, #hemyneumantrial hashtag. And rest in peace, this horrible, horrible story.

Unless...

You Turn Right at the WHAT Now?

For years, I've driven through Midtown Atlanta for a variety of reasons, and more often than not, I exit the freeway and enter the city via 17th Street. And in the course of these years, I've seen this one landmark at least 200 times. And each time I see it, I think the exact same thing.

It's part of the exterior design of a restaurant, you see. And this restaurant is always busy, it's been there for years, and I just googled it to find that every review site shows it having an average of 4-5 stars. It appears on numerous "Best Of..." lists as well. For these reasons, I am absolutely certain that the food is wonderful, the service is friendly and helpful, and the ambience is unbeatable. I don't know that firsthand, because I've never eaten there. I doubt I ever will. This is partly due to my being a massive cheapskate, partly due to my not especially loving Thai food, but mostly due to this landmark they've erected. Actually, I may be the only person in the world who would call it a "landmark", but it's so unique! So unignorable! So far in the forefront of my mind! Because people are always eating there, and it is always busy and I don't know how that can be, because

COME ON, MAN! HOW IS THAT NOT A GIANT BRONZE GORILLA TURD?

Image shamelessly yoinked from the in-depth (and very complimentary) review at Atlanta Restaurant Reviews

[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).

"You're Never Alone With a Phone"

Thus spake Mark Corrigan on an episode of Peep Show.  Nine times out of ten, I agree with Mark's pithy little phrases, but this time, he's way way WAY off. In my experience, he would've been better off saying something like "only the phone-ly" or "all by my cell-f". (Give me a break, it's late.)

I remember when text messaging first caught on. I bought myself an adorable little Sony Ericsson phone. It was pricey (compared to my previous phones, all of which had been free), but I didn't care because it was an investment. This wasn't just a phone! This was THE phone! The phone that would someday ring with the call that would change my life! My soulmate would call me on this phone! A major record label would call to offer me a contract on this phone! It had to be good, because it was going to be the conduit for SO MUCH amazing, life-changing, wonderful information! And when you factor in text messages, it would also be the hub of my incredibly active social life, with friends always calling and texting, wanting to hang out with me.

Yessir. I had high hopes for that phone.

In reality, of course, the only guy who called me on that phone turned out to be a douche. Not a single record label, major or otherwise, rang me up. I had so few friends that eventually I signed up for AT&T's daily horoscope service just to see what it was like to receive a text. Times were hard. The funny thing is that my life wasn't any different than it had been before; it sucked exactly as much as - but no more than - it had previously sucked. I had the same friends, did the same things. But somehow my previously satisfactory life had become an empty shell of an existence, and I had become a boring, useless pile of crap.

Madison Avenue bears some of the blame for this, of course. I mean, cell phone commercials are ridiculous, and they always have been. Invariably there's some model-handsome guy, standing in the middle of some HUGELY trendy city (usually Tokyo), at night, under a bunch of crazy neon lights. The gorgeous woman he's with moves a few feet away to pose so he can take a picture of her with friendly siberian tiger that has just finished crossing the street. Then the three of them decide they could really go for some sushi, so he looks up restaurant ratings and directions on his phone, but while he's doing that five people call and two leave voicemails and he gets twenty-five text messages from movie stars and one of the voicemails is from his boss so he has to pause for five seconds to design an entire Keynote presentation on his phone which he then sends back to the office in New York just in time for the alarm which tells him it's time for him and his girlfriend to board their private Concorde where he sits and listens to music that he downloaded to the phone while setting a new high score for Angry Birds.

WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE?

It's hard to see a commercial where a phone does all of that only to buy one for yourself and watch it sit, silent and motionless, on your bedside table for four years. Every second that phone does not spend ringing and vibrating and bursting with incoming messages is a moment it sits in silent dismay, judging you and your entire social life to be tremendously inadequate. There are times when you could swear you hear it doing a big exaggerated sigh. I wish I could've made the Real Life Sony Ericsson phone ad. It would've consisted of me (then an unemployed 20-something in her parents' basement), sitting in bed next to an open bag of Cheetos watching Adult Swim all night long, occasionally picking up the phone, looking at it, then putting it back down. Cue single, lonely tear.

I hated those feelings of inadequacy, but today I'm grateful for them. If I hadn't spent so many lonely nights trying to wipe my salty orange thumbprints off that phone's keyboard, I would never have survived the endless parade of horrors that the iPhone has brought into my life.

I got my iPhone in February of 2010. I had been dumped almost exactly a month before, so naturally I was in a hyper-optimistic phase, meaning I shelled out for the best model they had at the time. Why? Because this was the phone that would someday ring with the call that would change my life! My soulmate would call me on this phone! A major record label would call to offer me a contract on this phone! It had to be good, because it was going to be the conduit for SO MUCH amazing, life-changing, wonderful information!

Granted, I have my own place now. And I have far more friends than I had back in the day. But just as I have managed to carve out something like a life for myself, the advances in phone technology have stayed one step ahead of my feeble attempts at personhood, and managed to leave me once again wishing the stupid thing had never been invented. The phone still doesn't ring, except when I owe the Red Cross a pint of blood. I do get the occasional text, but I'm not exactly struggling to keep pace with all the correspondence. And now I am not only being judged as boring and inadequate by every call and text I DON'T receive, but I'm also being pointedly ignored by four email accounts, the whole of Facebook, most of Twitter, the better part of G+, and, apparently, Bump. The iPhone sits at my side, day in, day out, staring me down and saying, "There is no one - IN THE WORLD - who wants to speak to you. No one has seen something funny that made them think of you. No one wants to tell you something. No one wants to declare their undying love. No one even wants to send you a spam email."

As if this weren't bad enough, I finally got talked into subjecting myself to The Final Insult tonight: I got the Find My Friends app, or as I like to call it, "DELETE THIS APP IMMEDIATELY". Here's how it works:
1. You request to follow your friend.
2. Assuming your friend grants your request, they may also request to follow you.
3. This is not like "following" on Facebook or Twitter; whoever you allow into your little circle of friends will have access to your phone's exact GPS location at all times, unless you disable the feature.
4. When you look up your friend's location, Find My Friends shows you a little Google Map with a dot indicating his or her position. It also offers you the option to message the friend in question or get directions to where they are. Curiously, it does not provide a one-click connection to a suicide hotline. That's a pretty massive oversight, if you ask me.

My initial concern was that this was a little too invasive, but you can stop the phone from transmitting pretty easily, so I figured what the heck! I hadn't counted on the real evil here, and it's not stalking. Stalking is the least of your problems with this app. The problem is that now my phone is not only capable of judging me in its silence, but it can also actively tell me what a total reject I am. See, once I installed the app and hooked up with a few friends, I played around with checking their locations to see how specific the thing could be (answer: VERY SPECIFIC). But then I said the most fateful words I've said in weeks: "Hm. I wonder what [name] is doing at [place]. Weird." I say these words were fateful because they piqued my curiosity and led me to check in again about thirty minutes later, only to find that [name] had subsequently gone to another [place], this one even more fun and exciting than the last! I should point out that by this time (10:30) I was already snuggled up in bed with so much anti-aging cream on my face I'm surprised all the wine in my stomach didn't transform back into grapes. As [name] continued his or her tireless fluttering from one awesome destination to another, I became increasingly depressed at my depressingly depressing existence. Even if it had occurred to me to go somewhere fun at 10:30 on a Monday night, I wouldn't have been able to because I have work in the morning! And even if I hadn't had work in the morning, who would've gone with me? Probably one of the many people who are always blowing up my phone to hang out. OH WAIT.

And as the sheer magnitude of my patheticism settled on my shoulders with a great big WHUMP, I was further alarmed to realize that someday - mark my words - I am going to open that damn app to find that a BUNCH of my friends are all out doing something fun together...without me. Sigh.

I yearn for the days when I could've sat blissfully in bed at 10:30 on a Monday night feeling smug about how incredibly youthful my Blood of Virgins Anti-Aging Cream would make me look, enjoying my soft, warm mattress, feeling perfectly OK with myself and my life. I wish I could go back to a time when I could be the most boring person in my entire circle of friends without having to be constantly reminded of that fact. But no. I'm stuck in the 21st century, stuck with my iPhone, and stuck with a 24-hour news stream that simply says "NO ONE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU". At least until they invent an iPhone my cat can use.

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.

Don't Speak. No, SERIOUSLY.

You know what really juices my rutabagas? People who talk for no reason. If you like to hear yourself talk, I can pretty much guarantee you that NO ONE ELSE DOES. It is my misfortune, however, that even though no one cares what you have to say, lots of other people very much want to hear themselves talk. And what do we have then? We have a cluster of people saying nothing, often very loudly. Sample conversation:
YAPPER #1: What's the weather like today?
YAPPER #2: I heard it was gonna rain.
YAPPER #3: Really? I thought it was supposed to be sunny!
YAPPER #4: I read on the internet that there was going to be a freak dust storm blowing in from the ocean!!!
YAPPER #1 AGAIN: Hey, [YAPPER #5], what was the weather like when you went out a couple of hours ago?
YAPPER #5: It was nice! There were a couple of clouds, but they weren't too big. Although I noticed some grey ones in the distance when I was coming in, so maybe it's gonna rain later.
YAPPER #3: I could've SWORN I heard it was gonna be sunny!

The problem with this conversation is that it is the dumbest thing to come out of Pointless Inane Dumbtown since Paris Hilton published her 365 Ways to Cook With Cheddar Cheese and Heavy Cream! cookbook*. The weather is the singular focus of about a billion different websites, all available free of charge 24 hours a day. I have 3 free weather apps on my phone, one of which came bundled in the operating system. We have windows we can look out of. We could go outside and see for ourselves. And at the point where anyone asks what the weather was like "a couple of hours ago", the conversation has lost any illusion of relevancy. WEATHER CHANGES. OFTEN. RECENT-BUT-NOT-CURRENT NONEXPERT EYEWITNESS ACCOUNTS OF WEATHER ARE POINTLESS.

In the presence of a conversation like that, this is what I hear:
YAPPER #1: HEY LOOK EVERYBODY I AM TALKING!
YAPPER #2: ME TOO I WANNA TALK TOO!
YAPPER #3: YOU GUYS ARE TALKING? COOL! NOW I AM TALKING AS WELL!
YAPPER #4: I AM SO DESPERATE TO TALK THAT I WILL MAKE UP ANY OLD CRAP JUST SO I CAN SAY IT AT YOU.
YAPPER #1 AGAIN: IT'S AWESOME THAT WE ARE ALL TALKING BUT LET'S GET SOMEONE ELSE TO TALK!
YAPPER #5: I WILL TALK! I'M HAPPY TO TALK! I LOVE TALKING!
YAPPER #3: CHECK ME OUT YOU GUYS I'M TALKING AGAIN!!!!

Please. I'm begging you. Think twice before you open your face.

*No such book. Made it up**
**But I would totally buy it if it existed.

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.

SWF Seeks SEWVUV

Ugh. The single life. Regular readers (both of them ) will recall my many previous posts about my online dating experiences, and will probably be relieved to hear that I deactivated my profile last month after an escalating series of messages from some random weirdo. But "random weirdo" is not a very nice term to use, so I'll let you read our paraphrased conversation and judge for yourselves:
HIM (mid-June): Hi! You're pretty. Where do you do improv?
HIM (2 days later): Just bored at work so I thought I'd drop you a line. Send me a message!
HIM (early July): What's up?
HIM (one week later): I heard a funny joke today I thought you'd like. Chat me and I'll tell you
HIM (one hour later): IT SAYS YOU'RE ONLINE NOW! ARE YOU ONLINE? CHAT ME!
HIM (late August): We should meet up sometime.
ME: (cancels subscription to service)

So I had given up on finding love, and I've only grown more hopeless in the past week as I've learned that two of my celebrity crushes are Libras* (UGH!) and one of them is quite possibly gay.

Let's just say I've been working on my fantasy Golden Girls roommate roster and checking out retirement communities in Miami. Acceptance is the first step.

But then CNN ran a story about 5 great train rides for viewing fall foliage. CURSE YOU, CNN!

C'mon Great Smoky Mountain Railroad! You're killing me here!

I know they say that in the springtime a young man's thoughts turn to bikinis and foot fetishes or whatever, but I tend to be much more relationship-oriented in the fall than any other season. And I know some people say Christmas is the time of year when single people pine for companionship, but those people have never spent 2 weeks deadlocked in a fight to the death over whose family gets Christmas day and whose family gets stuck with the day after. Hell, if I ever do end up in a relationship again, we're going to be on a break from December 1 to December 30 every year. I simply cannot spend yet another Yuletide screaming "All I want for Christmas is MY LIFE BACK!" But I digress.

Fall is nice because there aren't any designated days that make you a horrible child if you don't spend them with your family, the weather's cool enough to warrant snuggly behavior, and it's a low-cost/low-traffic time for weekend getaways. I have many a fond autumn memory of Chattanooga, Athens, Helen, and even the beach...bundling up, exploring the scenery, drinking apple cider, eating in nice restaurants, staying in fancy B&Bs...and not paying for any of it!

OK, hang on - before you start calling me a gold digger, hear me out. It's not just about freeloading fun fall activities. Believe it or not, there are guys I could con into buying me things this very second if I wanted to, but that's not my deal. Half the fun is the companionship, and I'm extremely picky about guys - ask any of my exes. I also tend to be on the defensive when I first meet prowling boys, just because I know they can't be trusted. So if some random guy walked up to me and said, "Hey, d'you wanna ride the Great Smoky Mountain Railroad though Nantahala Gorge?", I'd pepper spray first and ask questions later. But if you've already got someone whose company you enjoy, and you want to spend hours and hours staring out a train window with them...c'mon, it's the icing on the cake if it's free.

It's just that getting to that point in a relationship is so difficult! You have to do that whole PowerPoint presentation of who you are and where you came from and why you aren't allowed inside Hardee's anymore. Then you have to tolerate each other's friends. Then you have to decide if you can stand to watch him talk with his mouth full of pizza for as long as you both shall live. Then you have to guess exactly what his mother will hate about you and try to fix it (or at least cover it up) before you meet her. Then you have to pretend to enjoy Dune or Star Wars or baseball... It's a whole THING. All that just so you can get on a damn train and quietly drink some coffee while looking out a window together!

Screw it. Maybe they'll let me bring my cat.

*As my wise friend C once said, "Never date a Libra. Libras are criers. It's exhausting."

I Don't Care What Color My Parachute Is

I should start by pointing out that I'm not actually looking for a job; it's just that I had to update the resume my employer keeps on file. I have to be honest: I don't like resume-updation. The thing that I hate most about it is the thing I hate about all of Corporate America: it's freaking disingenuous. I made the necessary updates and submitted them as requested, but I figured while I was at it, I might as well write up the resume I'd really LIKE to use...

Kimberly Welsh
[Address Withheld - How Dumb Do I Look?]
[Don't Answer That]
OBJECTIVE: To be a size 6 blonde lottery winner who lands herself an Englishman for a husband, subsequently moves to London and shrinks to a size 4 despite eating nothing but fried pub food and doing nothing but watching TV, reading, and occasionally winning pub quizzes with my team "Quiz In My Pants".
EDUCATION: 
Blah blah blah outstanding performance in the study of various of the liberal arts 
You don't care; it isn't an MBA. NEXT!
EXPERIENCE:
As a teacher, I didn't "monetize" anything or "manage" anybody or "optimize corporate strategy in line with future-state goals" or "maximize profits in a difficult economic climate". I just "crammed the better part of an entire foreign language into the heads of hungover 20-somethings, often against their will". Nothing challenging or difficult about that - it certainly didn't require that I work independently, think creatively, multitask, develop good public speaking skills (IN A FOREIGN LANGUAGE), think on my feet, establish detailed plans, handle delicate interpersonal situations or draft communications. Nope! I was just another one of them overpaid teachers that bleed our country dry while eating bonbons and watching Netflix on a computer you bought with your tax dollars!
Background Actor in a Lifetime Original Movie - 1998
Other work experience includes making hella awesome coffee and fielding various forms of unwanted advances as an administrative worker.
MAD SPECIAL SKILLZ:
- Can spit a pretty decent rap, given a good beat
- Actually understands how computers work
- Has remembered to feed cat for 4 consecutive years *and counting*
- Does a passable generic middle class English accent
SALARY REQUIREMENTS: I will accept a position with a monthly salary of $500,000. For $750k (still per month), I'll stop screwing around on Twitter and do something work-related.
SERIOUS OFFERS ONLY.

My Official Twitter Policy: Read It and Tweet

Everybody get your "Unfollow" fingers ready! Use the middle one, cuz I'm about to piss you off!

I love Twitter. I'm on Twitter, Google+, tumblr, and Facebook, but Twitter is my absolute favorite. That's why I refuse to let anyone ruin it for me. This includes you. If you aren't on Twitter and don't get what all the fuss is about, I'll explain it thusly:

On Facebook, you have a dedicated page that you have to curate at all times. I've had to delete offensive posts with which I didn't want to be associated. I've had to stop fights. I've been unwittingly dragged into fights. I've been flirted with against my will, had unflattering photos maliciously tagged, been forcibly added to groups about which I neither knew nor cared, had intimate details of my life revealed to distant relatives... Facebook is a full-time job, and you have to stay on top of it lest you wake up one morning and find that all 200 of your friends have been treated to a graphic photo of you vomiting, and you have been made "President" of the group "Racism not Placation!" It has its good points too, of course, or I would've deactivated my account by now. But it's a hassle nonetheless.

Twitter, on the other hand, is like a cocktail party. Your friends are there, and if you have something to say to them directly, you can find them and have a little chit-chat. But there are also millions of other people there, and if you hear something interesting going on, you can join right in! Play a hashtag game! Make a new friend with a fun accent! And Twitter has been the best means of finding new blogs, books, music, TV shows, etc. I don't care what the media thinks; Twitter has REAL people telling me what they GENUINELY like. As long as I've managed to find people who generally share my tastes (which is also pretty easy to do on Twitter), I have reliable opinions coming at me from all sides! It's fantastic! Sure, people can smack-talk about you if they want, but their word-puke won't be automatically broadcast to everyone who follows you.

I just joined Twitter earlier this year, so I'm a relative newbie. "No big deal," I thought at the time, "I'll follow some celebrities I like and some friends from the theatre. Cool!" And those first heady days were cool. God, they were so cool. My timeline was nothing but fun/funny tweets, and I stumbled on some strangers I quite liked, some of whom had blogs I quite liked, or YouTube videos I quite liked. It was a great way to find like-minded people and have a little burst of cheery sunshine in my life. Aaaaaah.

But now that I've been on Twitter for a few months and am pushing 50 followers, I'm older and wiser. I've learned that you have to be somewhat thick-skinned on Twitter. You just have to. No one has to explain why they follow, unfollow you, retweet you, don't retweet you, reply to you, don't reply to you...and you have to accept that.

I did the "follow back out of politeness" thing - where you follow anyone who follows you - for about 10 minutes, and suddenly my timeline went from a cheery ray of sunshine to a bile-inducing stream of shameless, repetitive self-promotion, vulgarity, and straight-up offensive hate speech. I was shocked. I didn't want to unfollow, of course, because I'm a nice person and I know that no one likes to be unfollowed. Instead, I invested $5 in a Twitter client for my iPhone that allows me to "zip" certain accounts so I can technically follow without having them raise my hackles (that's Olde English for "blood pressure") (not really).

But before I found TweetCaster (recommended!), I struggled to understand these people. In most cases, I ultimately just felt sorry for them. Sometimes, late at night, there would be a desperate-sounding tweet - you could almost hear the wailing sobs - from someone who had lost a follower and "needed" to replace him/her. To these people, I say: If that follower had any value to you as a human being, then they are irreplaceable. If they only had value as a number, then what you need are stronger meds, not additional followers.

I don't pity-follow.
I don't promo-follow.
I don't mention goods and services in exchange for money (*note: it shocks me how many bloggers are obviously being paid to endorse products in their Twitter feeds. It shocks me even more to see how graceless and heavy-handed they are about it.)
I don't pity-retweet.
I don't promo-retweet.

A lot of people (like, A LOT of people) will call this bad Twitter etiquette, and that's fine. I am well aware that literally millions of people believe very strongly in the pity- and promo- use of Twitter. But I adamantly do not.

As pertains to following: I am currently following nearly 120 people, and most of them are endlessly amusing, fantastic, kind, funny, amazing people. I truly, genuinely, honestly wonder what they're up to at various points throughout the day, and I love cranking up my phone to find out. Lisa started her new job! Jacque went out for ice cream! Drew went to Willy's for lunch AGAIN! Lauren and Grace had a witty and hilarious exchange about 90s-era raves! Bret booked another commercial! And both Nathaniel and James posted new videos in character as their alter egos! Those guys crack me up! If human beings were TV channels, Twitter allows you to tune into your favorites 24/7, which is amazeballs. Why the hell would I deliberately add commercials for things I don't want? Or random narcissistic whining? Answer: I wouldn't. As Grace Dent says in her brilliant book (see link in final paragraph): "I think life's too short to have people pissing you off in your timeline." I follow people who add value to my timeline by way of personal relationships, common interests, or because they generate content I enjoy. Those are the only reasons I follow anyone.

As pertains to retweets, #FFs, and other means of promoting friends: I assume that everyone else follows the same rules I do. I know that isn't the case, but I can't relate to using Twitter purely to harvest followers, so I can't adapt my behavior to accommodate that kind of person. SO: if we assume that all of my followers are following me for a reason (personal relationship, common interest, or because they enjoy my content), then I owe it to them to be true to myself and not fill their timeline with things that won't interest them.For example, I generally avoid politics and sports. It doesn't mean politics and sports are uninteresting or "bad". It just means I and my followers aren't the target audience. Comedy, Brit-centric things, etc., on the other hand, are pertinent, and I retweet them whenever I see something I genuinely like and genuinely think others will like too. People act like retweets should be reciprocal in the same way conversational compliments should be reciprocal. That's not true, and here's why:
Normal, polite conversation between two musicians who just played an open mic:
BOB: Hey man, great set! I told all my friends how great you were.
DAVE: Hey thanks, man - that's really cool of you to say! I liked yours too.
BOB: Thanks!

*fin*

Normal, polite conversation between two musicians who just played an open mic and obey the reciprocal retweet rule:
BOB: Hey man, great set! I told all my friends how great you were.
DAVE: Hey thanks, man - that's really cool of you to say! I liked yours too.
BOB: Great! Then you won't mind turning to face this camera crew I've brought and announcing to this worldwide video feed that you wholeheartedly endorse literally everything I did and said on stage, and also selling my stuff out of your booth. You know, since you liked it so much.

Bottom line: Don't tell me what to say/do/endorse in my feed. It won't end well for you.

As pertains to other people's egos: I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings, ever. I've been unfollowed, I've had nasty comments on my blog, and I've gotten nasty @mentions on Twitter. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. But I also know it's not my job to make sure everyone else in the world feels good about themselves. It can't be my job. I have insecurities of my own, just like everyone else does. I worry that the blog sucks. I worry that the sketch show sucks. I worry that my acting sucks, I'll lose my job, I'll never meet a decent guy, my condo will burn to the ground, my friends will abandon me, and it will ALL be because I'm too weak to say "no" to that second slice of pizza. But you know what? Those are my issues. I might go to a very close family member or friend for reassurance sometimes, but I DO NOT, nor will I EVER go to Twitter to publicly announce that "I think I'm a terrible failure and will be available to hear otherwise from the general public between the hours of 4-6." (You non-Twitter users think I'm exaggerating, don't you? You people don't know the meaning of the word "needy".) I don't leave nasty comments on blogs or make nasty remarks on Twitter because I'm not a troll and I think there's already enough animosity in the world to last us for the next few eons. But I categorically reject the idea that "not saying something nice" or "not retweeting something" is tantamount to being mean. It isn't. I don't owe you anything. Besides which, I like to think it makes it more meaningful when I do say something nice or retweet something. Because I only say nice things if I mean them. And I only retweet things if I both liked them *and* thought they would be relevant to my followers.

Obviously, if I intended to use Twitter *solely* as a promotional tool, I probably would do the mutual followback, promo-retweet, etc. etc. It's just good marketing. But the @kwerky_girl Twitter account is for me. Not my blog or my job or whatever else: just me. So I don't (and won't) run it like a PR department. I will run it as an exclusive club with me as the bouncer. You don't have to like it. That's what the Unfollow feature is for.

Also: if you want to read the absolute greatest summary of what Twitter is for, what kinds of people suck the fun out of it, and what makes it great in spite of those people, you HAVE to read Grace Dent's How to Leave Twitter: My Time as Queen of the Universe and Why This Must Stop, which is basically an expanded/funnier/more well-written version of my Official Twitter Policy. And I don't say that because anyone paid me money to say so, but because I read it and I liked it. That's the thing about me: if I recommend something, you know I mean it. I'm not just scratching someone else's back. It's this whole new concept. Happy tweeting, everyone!

FML

Hey you guys! Did you miss me? I missed you SOOOOOOO much. Let's never fight again, OK?

My week was complete insanity from start to finish, which is increasingly becoming the norm. Improv shows, self-defense classes (highly recommended for *anyone* who tries online dating), peripheral drama and the discovery that Black Books is on Hulu+ meant there was no way I'd make it blog-ward. Of course, it wasn't all fun and games. There have definitely been some stressful moments. Some quick examples:

- I spent most of yesterday psyching myself up for a long night working at the theatre, only to get a phone call on my way there that pretty much ruined my evening. Awesome.
- I have been looking forward to today all week long because I get to telecommute on Fridays and frankly, I NEEDED to do laundry. So naturally, something had gone squirrelly with the computers at work, and it took me an hour, two 5-year old documents, a phone call and an email to sort that out. Yay Friday </sarcasm>
- I broke a nail last night.

FML, YOU GUYS!!!!


Which brings me to the point of this post: I am pretty much done with people who use "FML". You'll note that every single problem I listed above was very minor. I mean, let's look at it another way:
- I spent most of yesterday psyching myself up for a long night (read: nearly FOUR WHOLE HOURS) of working at the [air-conditioned] theatre [with a bunch of cool people *while* watching an improv show for free], only to get a phone call [you know, on my totally awesome iPhone] on my way there [in my nearly-new car, also with air-conditioning and a functioning stereo] that pretty much ruined my evening [translation: I was really irritated for about 20 minutes, and even that was arguably by my own choice].
- Post-script on 2nd "problem": ...and now that is completely resolved and I managed to get into the network so I can work, and it's not even 9am yet so I have PLENTY of time to do laundry, clean up, etc. In fact, I literally have the next 3 days to do those things. So not really such a huge problem.
- I broke a nail last night. I am pretty irritated about that.

This is the problem with the "FML" phrase: there is never, ever a time when it's appropriate. If your life was really all that bad, you wouldn't have the electronic gadget (computer, iPhone, iPod, Blackberry, Droid, iPad,...) to type "FML" and tell everyone you've ever met how terrible everything is and how you totally hate your life and wish you were dead. And if something truly awful was happening, "FML" probably wouldn't express your feelings. Go to Somalia and see how many people walk up to you and say "everyone I know and love is slowly starving to death, there's a cholera epidemic, this drought looks like it may go on forever, and many of our surviving young people have resorted to violent piracy. FML, YOU GUYS!"

I hear you saying, "But Kimberly, nobody uses that phrase seriously! It's always meant to be sarcastic, as in your example above: 'I broke a nail - FML!' It's funny because we all know breaking a nail is not that big a deal!"

Well first of all, screw you, because I spent all week dealing with nail breaks and cracks. I had finally gotten all 10 fingers manicure-ready when this happened, so don't tell me what is and isn't a big deal, JERK! Second of all, I am sad to report that I know puh-len-ty of people who use FML and really, really mean it. Here's a quick sampling from the social medias:
"My back hurts. Again. FML."
"Traffic is AWFUL. FML."
"I ate 37 of Wild Wings' Atomic Wings, and my tummy is NOT happy. FML."
"I ran out of Diet Coke and the grocery store is already closed. FML."

And here's what I want to say [but am too nice to say] in response to each:
"Snap your fingers and wait for a morphine prescription to magically appear in your hand, as it always, always does here in the magical First World. Quit whining."
"Are you in a car? Does it have air conditioning? Are you entertaining yourself with the internet? I'm sorry you're going to be late for your dinner reservation at the 5-star steakhouse, but shut up."
"FAIL"
"WE GET IT. YOU HAVE AN ENDORSEMENT DEAL WITH DIET COKE. YOU ARE DOING A PISS-POOR JOB OF PRETENDING YOU JUST HAPPEN TO LIKE IT. THEY NEED TO STOP PAYING YOU."

I'm not saying there aren't real problems in the First World. Cancer, HIV, violent crime, the loss of a loved one...terrible things DO happen to us. And if you believe in the relativity of despair, as I truly do, then emotional pain is not a competition, and human beings the world over feel the same depth of sadness, even if one group's problems are objectively bigger/more serious than another's. But my point is that when you are truly in that horribly dark place, you do not say "FML". (See Somalia example above.) You say "FML" when you want attention, and anyone who wants attention that badly has an addiction I refuse to feed.

And that is why, when I see it in your Facebook status, I hide you. When I see it in your Twitter timeline, I zip you (TweetCaster for the win!), and when I see it on your blog/in the text you sent, I ignore you.

If I were you, I wouldn't even have read this post.

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.

File-a-Friend: For All Your Friend-Filing Needs

OH MY GOD HOW HARD DO I LOVE GOOGLE+ RIGHT NOW?!?! Let me count the ways...

Just kidding, there's only one: Filing human beings is the most fun you can have with your clothes on. Or with just your shirt off. Seriously, I had no idea that I wanted to do this with the various people in my life, but it turns out I very much DID want to do this. On Facebook, it's difficult to file people. It can be done, but it's time-consuming. And then, when I want to say something, I can either share it with everyone I've ever met, or spend an absurd amount of time deciding who gets to see what.

The root of the problem is - and you may have gathered this by now - I'm a human being. And as such, I have a variety of friends, interests, and even emotions! Sometimes I feel sad. Sometimes I feel happy. Sometimes I feel drunk. Sometimes I feel...nope, that pretty much covers it. When I feel sad, I want to share with friends who will be gentle and sympathetic. As below:

When I feel happy, I want to share with friends who will be happy with me and say nice things. As below:

When I feel drunk, I want to share with friends on whom I have so much dirt that I don't have to worry about them EVER telling anyone about that thing I said while drunk, as I would be mortified. As below:

But what usually happens is more like this: I feel sad and want to share with gentle/sympathetic people. Being too lazy to go through all 200 (rough estimate) of my friends and identify those people, I post to everyone and assume humanity will sort itself out. And I am gravely mistaken, as below:

I feel happy and want to share with happy/nice people. Being too lazy to go through all 3,000 (rough estimate) of my friends and identify those people, I post to everyone and assume humanity will sort itself out. And I am gravely mistaken, as below:

I feel drunk and want to share with people on my Mutual Assured Destruction List so I know it won't come back to haunt me. Being too drunk to go through both of my friends and identify the one who won't rat me out, I post to everyone and assume humanity will sort itself out. And I am gravely mistaken, as below:

So this never goes well for me. Ever. The alternative, as mentioned above, is to hand-pick which friends get to read a particular bit of news. This process is painful and annoying and, most importantly, I don't trust Facebook to work right half the time, so there isn't much point. The option I go with most of the time is just keeping my trap shut altogether. That's fine as far as it goes, but surely it defeats the purpose of social networking when I can't say ANYTHING without fear of attracting all the wrong attention?

Also, if I keep writing blog posts like this one, I won't have any FB friends left. And then I'll have to move permanently to Google+.

But that will be fine because Google+ has completely circumvented this problem by creating "Circles"! Circles are genius, and their creation method is even better. Google gives you a page with little pictures of all your friends (sorry - no good way to screenshot that without outing my friends, and I'd like to keep some of them), and then it gives you little circles to drop them into! You can put the same friend in multiple Circles if you want, they never find out the names of the Circles you've put them in (my previous experience with FB is that it does show the names of your little friend groupings), and then you can choose which Circles get which news! Brilliant! Tell your Yoga class about clearing your throat chakra WITHOUT inviting the mockery of some drunk asshole you knew in high school! Show your family a thousand cute pics of your cat without having your new boyfriend find out that you dress Mr. Biggles up like an old-timey barber! Circles = privacy, and it's about time we got a little more of that!

Circles also give you (er, me) a maniacal feeling of power. I can already tell that my current Circles, politely named "Friends", "Acquaintances", "Family", "Improv", etc. will soon be replaced or joined by Circles with names like "Jerks with whom I'm obligated to socialize", "Evil Incarnate", "Stalkers", and "Barnacles". And then I will lose hours and hours of my life in the practice of avenging real or perceived wrongs by moving people from Circle to Circle. Like: "Yeah, you WERE my friend! But a gift card to Bass Pro Shops? For my birthday? Welcome to the Barnacles Circle, jerkface." Even now I only know 12 people on Google+, and I am already far too enamored of staring at their little faces, pondering which file fits each one best.

It's a sickness. I hope I never get well. I'll see you all on Google+...but I'll never tell you which Circle you're in. MWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Post-Posting Final Thought: Why is it that Google is so good at recognizing my need to keep certain people out of certain Circles, but they STILL don't understand that the "Consider Including" crap in Gmail is literally the stoooooooopidest thing since snack packs of Oreos?

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.

Stock Photo Nightmare

I didn't originally intend to use this blog as a clearinghouse for every dumb thing I found on the internet, but apparently I can't keep my trap shut when I see something like this:

CNN is based right here in Atlanta, of course, so I have the inside story on just exactly how this picture came about.
EDITOR: The article is about financial infidelity - how to avoid it, how to spot it, how to determine financial compatibility with your spouse...

PHOTOGRAPHER: Right, right...OK, I'm seeing one of the B-52s here

EDITOR: Not the guy?

PHOTOGRAPHER: No, not Fred Schneider. One of the girls. Probably Kate Pierson. I'll get my people on it. Anyway, she's wearing a Pepto Bismol pink light denim business suit. Then I want to get her a really stylish bag from Versace's Scrotum line and fill it to the point of overflowing with cash...

EDITOR: But how will we convey the concept of infidelity?

PHOTOGRAPHER: Simple! We'll hold the shoot in a bedroom - Mary Todd Lincoln's bedroom, if we can get it - and...hmmm...what do financial adulterers do with money? I know! She can be haphazardly shoving individual bills under the mattress! And she'll be looking nervously over her shoulder as if to say, "I hope my loving husband doesn't come in here and catch me enacting my treacherous and financially unfaithful plan of stashing cash in various places of historic significance! I'm not even wearing my wedding ring, for God's sake!"

EDITOR: Hmmm...can she also be awkwardly bending over in a way that suggests she's trying to distract her husband with her ass and/or has sprained her back?

PHOTOGRAPHER: Of course!

EDITOR: Shoot it.

Dear Gmail: Consider Including My Free Will

Am I the only one who is completely bowled over by the sheer stupidity of Gmail's latest non-optional "improvement"? Perhaps you've seen it yourself: the helpful little "Consider including:" line that pops up under the To line in an outgoing email, suggesting other people you might want to include on the thread. It seems to make its suggestions based on mutual friends and/or people who are commonly included in group emails.

It's been live for a few weeks now, and while I can find some grumbling about it on them internets, there isn't nearly enough. We have to rise up, people! And we have to do it NOW. Because these aren't just names listed off to the side - they are clickable links that automatically add the [theoretically] interested party to the To line. In other words, you can type something akin to this:

To: Drew
From: Me
Subject: OH MY GOD HOW MUCH DO I HATE BILL?
Consider including: Bill
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My hatred for Bill burns with the heat of a thousand Tabasco vats. Sometimes looking at Bill's face literally makes me want to throw up. Seriously. If I could get a voodoo doll that allowed me to stab him directly in his soul, I would. Does he think he's funny? HE IS NOT FUNNY. I can't stand him. Let's pants him.

And if your mouse should somehow happen to graze that little "Consider including: Bill" link, you will shortly find yourself making a very unconvincing pitch to Bill about how this was all a joke. Ha ha. At first, people told me I was overreacting. But last week this actually happened to me. OK, it wasn't about Bill, who isn't a real person. And obviously it wasn't nearly as vitriolic as the above, because I am an angel and would never, ever say anything remotely like that. But I *do* sometimes say things I maybe don't necessarily want certain specific other people who are mentioned by name in the body of the email to read. It's not even always something mean! I could just as easily be saying "I cry myself to sleep every night because I love Bill so much and he doesn't even know I'm alive." But you know what? I still wouldn't want Bill to read it! (SPOILER ALERT: I caught/deleted the unintended recipient before clicking "Send". NO THANKS TO GMAIL.)

I may be a bit oversensitive about this issue, owing to a problem I had 2 years ago when a text that was meant for a close girlfriend accidentally got sent to the guy who had *just* asked me out, and who was, in fact, the subject of said text. This led to the most awkward after-midnight phone call I have ever made. Have you ever had to beg someone not to read the text you just sent them? Especially when it's someone who thinks you might be flirting when in fact you are COMPLETELY AND TOTALLY DEAD SERIOUS? It isn't fun, I can tell you. I still have flashbacks to that phone call, as well as to the subsequent phone call I placed to my best friend, at which point her husband saw my number on the caller ID, picked up the phone, and said, "You're an idiot". Thinking about it, everyone I call probably should answer that way all the time. Anyway, my point is: I've had more than enough mis-sent electronic communications already, thanks. I don't need any more.

I figure the Google people are subjecting me to this for one of two reasons: 1) Gmail is trying to encourage openness and honesty in all human relationships or 2) Gmail truly believes I am SO stupid that I genuinely don't know who all needs to be included in a given email. (Yes, I just said "who all". Welcome to the South.)

If reason #1 reflects their thought process, then I guess their goal is commendable. But they should bear in mind that for every cheating spouse or mean-spirited gossip that gets outted by their little Honesty Initiative, they are probably also ruining a surprise party somewhere. Is this a price we, as a society, are willing to pay? I submit that it is not. I heart surprise parties. NOT IN MY NAME!

If reason #2 reflects their thought process, then I have a knuckle sandwich with their name on it. Ever since this started happening 2 months ago, there has not been a single instance - not one - where I finished writing an email, scrolled up to proofread/click "Send", and said, "Oh crap! You're absolutely right, Gmail! I've just written a soul-baring missive to a close personal friend, and I almost forgot to include these three randomly chosen people we went to elementary school with! Sure, little Jimmy Penderton used to eat paste, but I bet he has some valuable insights about the next step in my spiritual journey. Thank Hera you reminded me to include him!"

(I'm making my "not amused" face here.)

Look, Gmail: If I need to send an email to a dozen people, it is very easy for me to pull up my contact list and tick boxes next to all of their names. You've done a great job with that, and I appreciate it. But 99.9% of the emails I write are only intended for ONE person's eyes, and including anyone else would be a patently bad idea. How about you just assume that I have considered including literally everyone else I've ever emailed...and I've decided against it.

Couples Game Night [is BS]

The following is an email I wrote to my Best Friend in the Whole Entire Universe the last time I had a boyfriend. Won't be making THAT mistake again anytime soon.


Um, having a boyfriend is a pain in the ass. Why didn't you remind me of that? We're going over to one of his friends' places for game night tonight! Yay!

Except that I've just heard what game we're playing. It's called Settlers of Catan. Have a quick glance over Amazon's borderline indecipherable description below:

Exploring and Developing Catan
The board consists of 19 terrain hexes surrounded by the ocean. Each type of terrain produces a different type of resource: brick, wool, ore, grain or lumber. There's also a desert hex that produces no resources. As the game progresses, players use resources to build roads along the edges of these hexes and settlements or cities on the intersections where three hexes meet. Each player begins the game with two settlements and two roads.

Each player's roll of the dice causes certain hexes to produce resources, which you collect if you have a settlement on one of them. On your turn, you'll use various combinations of the resources you've acquired to build new roads and settlements, upgrade settlements to cities, or purchase development cards. The ability to trade resources with other players adds a new level of strategy and ensures that the game includes lots of interaction between players. You can also trade without worrying about other players using an unfavorable maritime trade rate. Elements including a robber piece that lets you steal from other players and a variety of development cards add intrigue to the game.
The objective of The Settlers of Catan is to be the first one who collects 10 victory points. Each settlement is worth one victory point and each city is worth two victory points. You can also earn victory points by holding the "Longest Road" card, the "Largest Army" card, or special victory point development cards.


As of right now, my boyfriend has spent three hours playing the Xbox version, and he wants me to come over early so he can give me a one-hour tutorial before we go head-to-head with his friends. He "thinks he understands it now". THIS IS COMPLETELY OUT OF CONTROL.

The argument in favor of this ridiculous nonsense is that it's a "strategy game". Apparently Scrabble, Monopoly, Uno, Clue, Risk, and Chess are no longer considered to be sufficient, strategy-wise. What annoys me is that the only real strategy involved is as follows: find a game so obscure that you and your significant other are the only people on Earth who have EVER heard of it --> learn it inside and out --> invite your couple friends over --> humiliate them with your mad skillz --> pretend you legitimately won because of "strategy", rather than "because no one else could ever hope to grasp what's going on".

Which reminds me: we were wondering if you and your husband want to come over sometime to play "3,765 Alien Tribes Invade Siberia and Ancient Jerusalem PS You Lose". The rule book is 15,000 pages long and there are 35 different decks of cards, each of which has its own unique language, all of which are written using the cyrillic alphabet (but I'm sure you'll pick it up quickly). You have to roll four 12-sided dice and two 15-sided dice, then decipher the cryptic symbols on them to determine which tribe you are for every turn. And the game board is based on a birthmark I have on my left thigh. And all the currency values are expressed as hectares of martian land as valued by Donald Trump. If you get really stumped, you can phone a friend, but it won't do you any good, because my boyfriend and I are the only people in the world who have ever heard of this game. Let me know when you're free!