Sorting through my spam folder this morning I noticed about 400 emails from Facebook. I have invites, I have notifications, I have friend requests. Demanding bunch of people over at Facebook, aren’t they? Would 1 email not suffice?
Bowing to peer pressure, I logged on (which was no easy feat as I’d forgotten my password) and began responding to the backlog of
work social networking I had waiting for me. And here’s what I noticed…
- I cannot navigate Facebook. Maybe it’s me, maybe it’s Google Chrome, but Facebook is a pain in my ba-donk-a-donk.
- Why are people still listing their birthdays on Facebook? Are they completely out of it? Have they not seen the plethora of Dateline exposes on stealing your identity from Facebook? It all begins with the birthday, people. January 3, 1988 – and from there, Audrey Hopkins is my prison %&@$#. Why not just put your address on there while you’re at it. Oh my god! You did that too? Seriously? How are people not realizing how retarded (insert politically correct synonym) this is. Might as well tell everyone when you’re going on vacation. On no, but wait – I see you’re in Aruba and congratulations on that new flat screen from last week.
All I’m saying is, if you’re dumb enough to send a check to the chain letter from the banker in Africa who needs your help to save his village, then I guess this Facebook idiocy is to be expected. If however, you aren’t
suckered in by that awesome Timeshare opportunity in booming downtown Detroit, then why in the hell are you being suckered in by Facebook? Pssst, the internet is not private.
A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to see a screening of Brad Pitt’s new movie, Moneyball, which releases this Friday. Based on the best seller by Michael Lewis, Moneyball tells the storyof Billy Beane, General Manager of the Oakland Athletics baseball team, who tries to change the game of baseball because he has to; Oakland has no money and Billy has no players.
It’s a good movie and I don’t even like baseball or any sports for that matter. Like the Bad New Bears, Charlie Sheen’s infamous Wild Thing or even the old Goldie Hawn football movie, Wildcats, I was immediately rooting for the underdog, money-poor Oakland. Brad Pitt plays Billy Beane well and I’ve been hearing a lot of rumors that he’s making a run with it for an Oscar. Oscar-worthy? Well after Sandra Bullock won for her role as that Texas mom last year, who can say. I mean I love Sandy, but an Oscar for that? I still can’t add it up.
Anyway, I don’t think Pitt as Beane is worth an Oscar, but I will admit to not blinking the whole time he was on stage. I mean what is with that guy? Is he like a golden Adonis or what? I can’t get over how magnetic he is on screen. It’s got be lights and makeup because nobody can be that alluring, appealing, arresting, bewitching, captivating, charismatic, charming, enchanting, entrancing, fascinating, hypnotic, inviting, irresistible, mesmerizing, and seductive. (I thesaurus’ed magnetic) Sam told me the real Billy Beane is a looker as well and I’d have to agree. While he’s no Brad Pitt, the man is handsome.
So in short, go see Moneyball. You’ll like it and it’ll be good to know what everyone is murmuring about next Monday at the water cooler.
It happened again. This weekend I met a woman who saw my adorable son, King William.
“Oh! How old is he?” she cooed.
“About a year.” I answered with a smile.
“That’s a precious age. My son is 21 months.”
Quickly I did the math. 12 months x’s 2 years is 24 months minus 21 months = 3 months so… “About a year and a half then?” I asked trying not to let the irritation show in my voice. What is it with people and counting by months?
Ever since I can remember people have been throwing months at me in regards to their children. 17 months, 31 months, 25 months. It’s ridiculous. I’ve even had a woman tell me her child was 383 days old once. What’s next? Counting by moon cycles? Listen up you crazy parents. When your child is less than a year, it makes sense to count by months. 4 months, 8 months, 11 months – say it as much as you want because it’s special. Your baby is so young he or she hasn’t even been alive 1 whole year and so you mark each month with pride and excitement. But then the year mark comes and guess what? It’s time to start rounding. Less than a year and a half? Go with “Around a year.” Over a year and a half? Go high or go low, your call, but no counting by months. It’s either “About a year a half.” or “Almost two.” Seriously. No more of this 21 months nonsense.
And the next person to tell me his/her child’s age in days is going to get it. Unless of course the child really is only like 3 days old in which case, go for it. But if your kid is 40, I don’t want hear 480 months or some such absurdity. Which reminds me of this interesting/unusual fetish: adult baby syndrome, otherwise known as paraphilic infantilism or autonepiophilia:
Stanley the Adult Baby
Blood pressure – boiling. Patience with fellow humans – zip. Desire to go euthanize helpless coyotes – nonexistent!
According to the LA Times, officials in Glendale plan to trap a family of coyotes in an abandoned home and kill them. Why? Because neighbors fear that the pups could be dangerous. So the powers to be are setting traps around the burned-out home.
Hey guess what, people? If we didn’t keep building and building and building, consuming, consuming, and consuming THE COYOTES WOULDN’T BE FORCED TO LIVE IN AN ABANDONED HUMAN HOME IN THE FIRST PLACE. Why? Because they’d have unpolluted, forest land where they could hunt and roam and live freely. But no. We destroy their natural habitat and then make plans to trap and euthanize them when they take shelter in a building we don’t even want anymore.
Human’s First. That’s my motto.
Because honestly, who need to preserve wildlife when we can just look at pictures of them on the internet in the comfort of our own living rooms?
Ahhhhh! And just because it needs saying one more time, Ahhhhh! I’m finally coming up for air after being sick (and I mean really sick, like stuck in bed for 41 days sick) to chaos. My house is a disaster, my bills are unpaid, my yard is unkempt, and my car looks like it’s been in long-term parking for a year. I feel like Sleeping Beauty waking up from a horrible nap that I never meant to take. What the hell happened?
I’ll tell you what happened. Life went on without me. And now I’m faced with the herculean task of cleaning up the mess. Just this morning, I finally unpacked a box (one of many that still need to be sorted from our move) and found my father’s birthday card…which I purchased last spring…for his birthday last July. I’m going to send it today. It’s the thought that counts right?
In my wanderings around my new, cobwebbed home that I just woke up to I also found plans to make curtains for our bathroom. Yeah…mmmm, I think I’m going to scratch that. I’ve got bigger fish to fry like who the heck has been putting away the dishes? Nothing is where I left it and I now need to find time to rearrange all the cabinets. And get curtains for the kitchen as there seem to be tablecloths looped over the rods instead. And talk to my husband about the fact that everything in his closet seems to be piled at strategic locations around our bedroom. How did I sleep through that? Or the fact that our dining room table is covered and I mean covered with stuff. What is all that stuff?
The goods news is that I now realize for my household to run smoothly (did I mention the stack of unpaid bills I just found tucked into a bathroom drawer?) I need to be awake. The bad news is that looking around my disheveled and dilapidated castle, I want to go right back to sleep.
So I’ve been sick for awhile. Nothing serious, just stuck in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why me. Why am I the one who gets a case of hives so bad that her face swells uplike a botched plastic surgery operation? Whose skin is speckled with silver dollar sized welts that look as if she’s been dumb enough to tangle with a swarm of African Honey Bees?
Yes, those are my lips.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, I’ve got you-know-what sickness so I’m throwing up and wetting my pants every 10 seconds. Like Marisa Tomei once said, “You don’t appreciate bladder control until it’s gone.”
Now I’m not complaining (okay, I am), but seriously, making lemonade after 3+ months of this is hard. Sam says to look on the bright side: I don’t have cancer. My family hasn’t died in a tragic accident involving giants rats and a caved-in sewer line. No reports of tsunamis are coming my way. And I don’t eat garbage from public trashcans or take heroin for breakfast. Yeah. Okay. I see his point. But I also am not Petra Ecclestone who just bought the Spelling mansion for 85 million dollars at 22 years old.
So I’m looking for somewhere in the middle. I’ll take living in my well, not-85-million-dollar-mansion if these darn hives would just go away. I’d like to go out in public again!