Ahh….Social networking. MySpace, Facebook, Blogger, Twitter… What could possibly be better than publicly humiliating yourself to 572 of your closest friends and all their friends? Clearly nothing! I love it as do most of my friends and family. I mean, where else can you intimately tell all those people (closest to you of course) that you are currently flossing your teeth? Or that your loser boyfriend finally dumped you? Or that, yep, you went home with that butter-face last night? Only on the internet can we network in such a way that is socially vogue and really not even talk to each other!
I really find it fascinating how there are some people out there who truly believe that because they are on someone’s ‘page’ and they have been ‘friended’ that they are truly friends with that person. In real life people; you probably will never have a phone conversation with that person or hang out with them. Because you have a way to contact them through social networking does not make you friends. Please take special note that this also applies to celebrities – they will accept anyone (duh).
The other interesting concept in social networking is when there are people that trash on it but say they use it merely for “work purposes” to “make those contacts”. I have one thing to say to these peeps – Are you really that lame that you will talk shop with other lame people on your OWN time without getting PAID? Get a life! Oh, and yes, I see you on Farmville (don’t think I don’t stalk you).
The argument will then come from this same group indicating that they are trying to ‘branch out of their industry to penetrate other opportunities’. I call foul on this one too. I highly doubt that Joe Schmoe executive pants is going to hire you based on the qualifications that you are currently ‘considering buying a goldfish’ and that ‘check out the pic of my Chihuahua snowboarding with me!’
I love social networking just as much as the next girl (hello? Blogging every day!) but I also know that it is making me socially retarded. I no longer put out the effort to call my friends. If I care about what they’re doing, I’ll check up on them. I don’t need to see their babies – their pics are posted. Hell, I don’t even have to deal with their smelly animals or houses anymore! I can just admire from afar. I do tend to be a little more honest in the electronic environment. For example, “Whoa! Susie! Your kid looks like a Rhino with that nose!” I figure, as long as I put ‘LOL’ after it, no harm – no foul.
Finally, I must admit that my friend Evan had a superb idea. He thinks that there should be some sort of ghettoized version of Facebook. Like someplace your employer is not allowed to go or search and instead of collecting friends, you collect “bitches”. When I asked him what you would do when you no longer wanted to have said “bitches” he replied, “Bitch Slap Them!” He said this with a tad more excitement than necessary. Repressed rage? Possibly.
I think his idea is golden and he is sitting on a literal multi-gagillion idea and now that I have put it out there some a-hole on my Facebook list (who probably is NOT my friend) is going to capitalize on this idea. Sorry, Evan.
So, in a nutshell, I am that narcissistic demographic who wants to put all my junk out there for the world to see. I like me, and I think everyone else should too. So really, why wouldn’t I share?
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Passports
Working for the government doesn’t make me feel nearly as dirty as does working with the government. I applied for a passport today because my cousin convinced me that going to Mexico would be a lot of fun. After first ensuring that BP hadn’t destroyed the beach we are planning to stay on, I agreed. I mean, what isn’t appealing about Mexico?
The men down there love them a fresh American woman. It’s really a nice change of pace seeing as how American men find most of us irritating, demanding and spoiled. No, Mexican men find us to be beautiful mythical creatures of whom they can’t understand a single sound we utter other than, “cash” “margarita” and/or “boobies” – I rest my case – they love us and we all know why.
Secondly, when you are from the rainiest corner on the planet, it is nice to be near the equator every once in a while. This is when I most appreciate the holes in the ozone layer, pollution, and global warming. All I can think under that hot sun is “HELL YES! MAKE ME BROWN!!!”
But I digress... I applied for a passport. The part that makes me cringe in the application process is that they want to know how many different times you have been married, how many different last names you have had, and if you are currently still married to the person you listed in box 1 (this is after you have filled out all the other name issues and are on box 84). What can make a woman feel dirtier than having to list every worthless person they have ever wed? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s what.
So after listing my first 18 husbands and name changes, they ask about your parents. They want names, birth dates, places they were born, etc. THANK GOD I KNOW WHO MY DAD IS! That saved a bit of embarrassment to say the least. However, I still had to call them to double check where they were from and everything. As I picked up to call them (of course I called my dad because he would be more understanding of the loop hole of mental retardation when it came to remembering dates) my palms got sweaty…. Thoughts raced through my head, what if my parents were illegal and I didn’t know it? I mean, not ALL illegal immigrants come from south of the border. After some reassurance (somewhat – I mean I was talking to my dad), and correct information intact, I was ready to submit it.
A flash of nervousness swept over me one final time. I quickly Googled, “America’s Most Wanted” and double checked that I wasn’t needed anywhere in the U.S. for something I couldn’t remember (refer to last post – beer is a sport). After searching the database of American criminals, I felt comfortable enough to submit my application. I hit send.
The next page said that I needed to have 25 pieces of identification proving who I was (my social security number is apparently not enough for them), two recent color photos (does Girls Gone Wild try-out photos count?), and oh yes, of course they want: ONE HUNDRED AMERICAN DOLLARS for me to prove to them who I am so that I can visit a third-world country and get lice, sunburned, drunk, disorderly, and stimulate their economy.
With the way things are going here – I’m in. Here’s my Benjamin...
The men down there love them a fresh American woman. It’s really a nice change of pace seeing as how American men find most of us irritating, demanding and spoiled. No, Mexican men find us to be beautiful mythical creatures of whom they can’t understand a single sound we utter other than, “cash” “margarita” and/or “boobies” – I rest my case – they love us and we all know why.
Secondly, when you are from the rainiest corner on the planet, it is nice to be near the equator every once in a while. This is when I most appreciate the holes in the ozone layer, pollution, and global warming. All I can think under that hot sun is “HELL YES! MAKE ME BROWN!!!”
But I digress... I applied for a passport. The part that makes me cringe in the application process is that they want to know how many different times you have been married, how many different last names you have had, and if you are currently still married to the person you listed in box 1 (this is after you have filled out all the other name issues and are on box 84). What can make a woman feel dirtier than having to list every worthless person they have ever wed? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That’s what.
So after listing my first 18 husbands and name changes, they ask about your parents. They want names, birth dates, places they were born, etc. THANK GOD I KNOW WHO MY DAD IS! That saved a bit of embarrassment to say the least. However, I still had to call them to double check where they were from and everything. As I picked up to call them (of course I called my dad because he would be more understanding of the loop hole of mental retardation when it came to remembering dates) my palms got sweaty…. Thoughts raced through my head, what if my parents were illegal and I didn’t know it? I mean, not ALL illegal immigrants come from south of the border. After some reassurance (somewhat – I mean I was talking to my dad), and correct information intact, I was ready to submit it.
A flash of nervousness swept over me one final time. I quickly Googled, “America’s Most Wanted” and double checked that I wasn’t needed anywhere in the U.S. for something I couldn’t remember (refer to last post – beer is a sport). After searching the database of American criminals, I felt comfortable enough to submit my application. I hit send.
The next page said that I needed to have 25 pieces of identification proving who I was (my social security number is apparently not enough for them), two recent color photos (does Girls Gone Wild try-out photos count?), and oh yes, of course they want: ONE HUNDRED AMERICAN DOLLARS for me to prove to them who I am so that I can visit a third-world country and get lice, sunburned, drunk, disorderly, and stimulate their economy.
With the way things are going here – I’m in. Here’s my Benjamin...
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Organized Sports
I excel at very little in this life of mine. The three sports where I really kick some ass happen to be drinking, shopping and pampering myself. To all of you Negative Nellie’s out there who think I am kidding; these three sports really are just that. They are organized by an objective (to get hammered, collect items you want, make yourself pretty), have clearly defined rules (don’t vomit, don’t exceed your credit spending limit, no plastic surgery), and are clearly competitive (Beer pong, end-of-season sales, look prettier than everyone else). So when I was asked to play soccer this spring, I was thrilled that I would be able to contribute my abilities to a new area.
And contribute I have! I have mad skillz. I have skillz that would make any five year old nervous. I see the ball and I run for it. No matter that I am playing defense and running to score, or that while playing offence, I hang back to talk to the other team’s defenders. I am that good.
There are other girls on my team who are constantly cheering me on to “Kick the Damn Ball!” and “Offsides!” These girls are truly good players and its super awesome of them to help me along and coach me as I come to my own. There annoyance of me as their team member is barely noticeable and when I run to kick the ball and totally miss - they laugh right along with me.
The men on my team are another story. They look at me and encourage me to kick and yell to me that I don’t need to duck when the ball comes flying at my face at 90 miles an hour. (No really, that happened. I almost broke my perfect nose because the KICKING COACH of the SOUNDERS was playing for the other team! Like really? He needs to play on a coed recreational team?? Loser.) This season has truly been a delight every step and game of the way. I can now add this to my list of specialties…anyone need an extra player for summer?
So what I have learned this soccer season is that at least I am the hottest girl on the team, with the best outfit and I mask my beer breath before I make it on the field. Otherwise, I would have been a terrible addition to their team.
And contribute I have! I have mad skillz. I have skillz that would make any five year old nervous. I see the ball and I run for it. No matter that I am playing defense and running to score, or that while playing offence, I hang back to talk to the other team’s defenders. I am that good.
There are other girls on my team who are constantly cheering me on to “Kick the Damn Ball!” and “Offsides!” These girls are truly good players and its super awesome of them to help me along and coach me as I come to my own. There annoyance of me as their team member is barely noticeable and when I run to kick the ball and totally miss - they laugh right along with me.
The men on my team are another story. They look at me and encourage me to kick and yell to me that I don’t need to duck when the ball comes flying at my face at 90 miles an hour. (No really, that happened. I almost broke my perfect nose because the KICKING COACH of the SOUNDERS was playing for the other team! Like really? He needs to play on a coed recreational team?? Loser.) This season has truly been a delight every step and game of the way. I can now add this to my list of specialties…anyone need an extra player for summer?
So what I have learned this soccer season is that at least I am the hottest girl on the team, with the best outfit and I mask my beer breath before I make it on the field. Otherwise, I would have been a terrible addition to their team.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Public Bathrooms
Can I ask a question that no one else in the world has dared to approach? Who in their right mind created the inspiration behind public bathrooms? I mean really? It must have been someone from a European country (they are all about nudity) and definitely a man. No woman would have willingly put two to three commodes in the same room so that women could defecate and urinate together. It’s just a foul concept.
For the female race, you know when someone is taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. Merrily, you waltz into the bathroom needing to pee really quickly and touch up your make-up when suddenly; you notice the restroom is eerily quiet. So quiet in fact, that it dawns on you that someone is pooping behind one of the stall doors. Sure enough, after looking under the door, you see feet sitting as still as possible. One eye roll later (since you are already committed to using that bathroom) and you race as fast as you can into the stall to do your business and get out of there.
Meanwhile, the person in the stall peers through the crack in the door only to realize the person coming in is a cubicle farm mate and so they can’t exactly be honest and yell for some privacy. No, no, that would be too obvious! So the human female will sit there, like a deer in headlights (deadly silent), waiting for the intruder to pee and get out.
If all goes well, this is just how it is done. Awkwardness fills women’s bathrooms across the United States every day, but all women manage to get through it.
When it doesn’t go well is when some moron chooses the stall directly next to you. Ladies, I am here to tell you, there is a one stall separation rule that most of you clearly don’t understand. When I am sitting there like a discomfited deer, the last thing that I want to happen is to have your dumb ass sit down in the stall next to me! Do you really need to be that close to me while I relieve myself? I think not! Do me (and the rest of the females on earth) the courtesy of taking a stall at the opposite end of the restroom.
And may you perish; if while sitting on the toilet, you start chatting me up from the next stall because you recognized my shoes. That is disgusting and you are a complete idiot.
For the female race, you know when someone is taking the Browns to the Super Bowl. Merrily, you waltz into the bathroom needing to pee really quickly and touch up your make-up when suddenly; you notice the restroom is eerily quiet. So quiet in fact, that it dawns on you that someone is pooping behind one of the stall doors. Sure enough, after looking under the door, you see feet sitting as still as possible. One eye roll later (since you are already committed to using that bathroom) and you race as fast as you can into the stall to do your business and get out of there.
Meanwhile, the person in the stall peers through the crack in the door only to realize the person coming in is a cubicle farm mate and so they can’t exactly be honest and yell for some privacy. No, no, that would be too obvious! So the human female will sit there, like a deer in headlights (deadly silent), waiting for the intruder to pee and get out.
If all goes well, this is just how it is done. Awkwardness fills women’s bathrooms across the United States every day, but all women manage to get through it.
When it doesn’t go well is when some moron chooses the stall directly next to you. Ladies, I am here to tell you, there is a one stall separation rule that most of you clearly don’t understand. When I am sitting there like a discomfited deer, the last thing that I want to happen is to have your dumb ass sit down in the stall next to me! Do you really need to be that close to me while I relieve myself? I think not! Do me (and the rest of the females on earth) the courtesy of taking a stall at the opposite end of the restroom.
And may you perish; if while sitting on the toilet, you start chatting me up from the next stall because you recognized my shoes. That is disgusting and you are a complete idiot.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Attack of the Wal-Martians
Ahhh… Wal-Mart. The store we all love and hate. Besides all the controversy, it really is a company you can’t avoid. The prices are wickedly cheap and the selection vast. With the OP line now available there, I hardly ever have a need to veer from the $3 clothing racks.
But I digress from my love affair with Wally World to discuss the part I hate the most. It has nothing to do with the prices, selection, or people that work there. It has to do with those who shop there. I lovingly refer to these people as “Wal-Martians”. This term says everything it needs to; like, what planet are you weird people from?! I don’t see them any place BUT Wal-Mart and they seem to flock by the hundreds.
Today was a typical shopping day for me. My daughter is leaving for camp so naturally, I took out a small loan to purchase all of her necessary items. I mean, how has she lived this long without facial wipes, hairspray in a mini-can, or an extra flashlight? I must have been a terrible mom up to today.
I got the things she needed off the list – four items to be exact. These were just the items my husband forgot on the first three shopping trips. After collecting my loot, I go to the checkout area and scan the six out of fifty open check stands and take my chances on the 20 items or less isle. I scan the Wal-Martians in front of me and note that they have very little items so this should go smoothly. I smugly do the mental ‘BOO-YA!’ to the other Wal-Martians that chose the longer lines. Idiots.
It isn’t until I have read (cover to cover) the latest In-Touch, People, and Cooking with Paula Deen that I realize I haven’t even moved up in line. I look ahead of me and realize that the people at the front of the line have four separate ‘20 items or less’ transactions (cheaters!) and don’t have enough money for their final bill. To my utter dismay they are counting out change to the cashier (Coin Star anyone?) and the cashier is ‘in-training’! Of course she is training though; it wouldn’t be my Wal-Mart experience without the cashier being trained!
It is then that the ultimate horror has descended on me and the other patrons… The check stand light has been flicked indicating that managerial help is needed. Dang it! I mentally retract my BOO-YA and look longingly at the Wal-Martians happily plugging along through their lines.
After another fifteen minutes and the latest Vogue magazine thoroughly read; the lady in front of me gets her turn. She then unleashes pent up fury on the cashier. Missing front teeth otherwise gnashing, she demands a pack of Pall Malls, and pays for her magazine (Earth to Wal-Martian, waste of money to buy the mag when you could have easily read it by now!). When it’s finally my turn, they change out employees. *HEAVY SIGH OF DEFEAT*
After my escapade, I trudge out to my car relief pulsing for my veins. It isn’t until I am halfway home that harsh realization hits me.
I forgot Toilet Paper.
But I digress from my love affair with Wally World to discuss the part I hate the most. It has nothing to do with the prices, selection, or people that work there. It has to do with those who shop there. I lovingly refer to these people as “Wal-Martians”. This term says everything it needs to; like, what planet are you weird people from?! I don’t see them any place BUT Wal-Mart and they seem to flock by the hundreds.
Today was a typical shopping day for me. My daughter is leaving for camp so naturally, I took out a small loan to purchase all of her necessary items. I mean, how has she lived this long without facial wipes, hairspray in a mini-can, or an extra flashlight? I must have been a terrible mom up to today.
I got the things she needed off the list – four items to be exact. These were just the items my husband forgot on the first three shopping trips. After collecting my loot, I go to the checkout area and scan the six out of fifty open check stands and take my chances on the 20 items or less isle. I scan the Wal-Martians in front of me and note that they have very little items so this should go smoothly. I smugly do the mental ‘BOO-YA!’ to the other Wal-Martians that chose the longer lines. Idiots.
It isn’t until I have read (cover to cover) the latest In-Touch, People, and Cooking with Paula Deen that I realize I haven’t even moved up in line. I look ahead of me and realize that the people at the front of the line have four separate ‘20 items or less’ transactions (cheaters!) and don’t have enough money for their final bill. To my utter dismay they are counting out change to the cashier (Coin Star anyone?) and the cashier is ‘in-training’! Of course she is training though; it wouldn’t be my Wal-Mart experience without the cashier being trained!
It is then that the ultimate horror has descended on me and the other patrons… The check stand light has been flicked indicating that managerial help is needed. Dang it! I mentally retract my BOO-YA and look longingly at the Wal-Martians happily plugging along through their lines.
After another fifteen minutes and the latest Vogue magazine thoroughly read; the lady in front of me gets her turn. She then unleashes pent up fury on the cashier. Missing front teeth otherwise gnashing, she demands a pack of Pall Malls, and pays for her magazine (Earth to Wal-Martian, waste of money to buy the mag when you could have easily read it by now!). When it’s finally my turn, they change out employees. *HEAVY SIGH OF DEFEAT*
After my escapade, I trudge out to my car relief pulsing for my veins. It isn’t until I am halfway home that harsh realization hits me.
I forgot Toilet Paper.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Starbucks
I woke with a start this morning; heart pounding and skin balmy. I had an affair last night…with Brad Pitt. CRAP! I really hope my husband doesn’t find out! After I took a minute to calm down, I realized that it was just a bad dream. Or let’s just say a dream – because all things Brad Pitt are good. I had to smile to myself because I got to enjoy all the benefits of cheating on my spouse without the guilt. POOF! Brad just evaporated and I can go on with my day. Dreams are a wonderful thing, and so are nicotine patches when you accidentally leave them on overnight.
I had an award ceremony to attend for work this morning in Seattle. I had stayed overnight with a co-worker so that I could eliminate an early morning commute. The award ceremony was delightful and went off without a hitch. After the award ceremony, I was dropped off at the Coleman Dock to take the nine o’clock ferry into Bremerton where my car was patiently awaiting my arrival. However, I missed the boat. Dang! I waited for the next one, at ten, and was delighted to finally be on my way home on a nearly empty vessel.
As I parted ways with the boat, it occurred to me that I still had an hour drive ahead of me and was pretty tired. I had remembered seeing a Starbucks the day before so I high tailed it in the general direction of the coffee Mecca. With my perfectly pressed suit, designer shades, and luggage trailing behind me; I plowed through the door like I owned the place. I clip-clopped my way to the counter and fumbled with my wallet (envision this like a crack-head looking for a crumpled $20) and barely greeted the gal about to take my order before demanding a caramel macchiato. It was then that I looked up.
Mind you, the girl smiling back at me was very pretty; however, her hair seemed ‘off’. Upon closer inspection, I determined that most of her hair had to have been a wig or Jessica Simpson hairpiece. I tried not to be obvious about it but I couldn’t take my eyes off her bouffant ‘do.
Now…this is where it gets weird. As she turns to teeter over to the espresso machine I realize that she doesn’t have any pants on! Something tells me that whatever was in the apple martini I had consumed during happy hour the day before is some good stuff. I mean, really?! Pants are now OPTIONAL in the workplace?? To make things even more interesting, she was even sporting go-go boots. I mean, I thought this was STARBUCKS? Don’t they have to wear green or black polo shirts? Maybe the corporation doesn’t specify that the employees must also wear pants. Someone really screwed up the policies there....
Moral of the story: I am no longer wearing pants if the workers at Starbucks don’t have to. AND! Apple martinis are god’s single greatest creation.
I had an award ceremony to attend for work this morning in Seattle. I had stayed overnight with a co-worker so that I could eliminate an early morning commute. The award ceremony was delightful and went off without a hitch. After the award ceremony, I was dropped off at the Coleman Dock to take the nine o’clock ferry into Bremerton where my car was patiently awaiting my arrival. However, I missed the boat. Dang! I waited for the next one, at ten, and was delighted to finally be on my way home on a nearly empty vessel.
As I parted ways with the boat, it occurred to me that I still had an hour drive ahead of me and was pretty tired. I had remembered seeing a Starbucks the day before so I high tailed it in the general direction of the coffee Mecca. With my perfectly pressed suit, designer shades, and luggage trailing behind me; I plowed through the door like I owned the place. I clip-clopped my way to the counter and fumbled with my wallet (envision this like a crack-head looking for a crumpled $20) and barely greeted the gal about to take my order before demanding a caramel macchiato. It was then that I looked up.
Mind you, the girl smiling back at me was very pretty; however, her hair seemed ‘off’. Upon closer inspection, I determined that most of her hair had to have been a wig or Jessica Simpson hairpiece. I tried not to be obvious about it but I couldn’t take my eyes off her bouffant ‘do.
Now…this is where it gets weird. As she turns to teeter over to the espresso machine I realize that she doesn’t have any pants on! Something tells me that whatever was in the apple martini I had consumed during happy hour the day before is some good stuff. I mean, really?! Pants are now OPTIONAL in the workplace?? To make things even more interesting, she was even sporting go-go boots. I mean, I thought this was STARBUCKS? Don’t they have to wear green or black polo shirts? Maybe the corporation doesn’t specify that the employees must also wear pants. Someone really screwed up the policies there....
Moral of the story: I am no longer wearing pants if the workers at Starbucks don’t have to. AND! Apple martinis are god’s single greatest creation.
Starting a Blog
After the morning I had, I decided that it was high time to start my own blog. Why, you may ask? Because I have a very interesting life, hence the name 'Adventures in Dacialand'. I will be the first to admit, although young (ish), I had not a clue as how to blog. I always thought blogging had something to do with a big green blob of a monster - sorta gooey? Then I realized they were called BLOGS not BLOBS! (Insert lightbulb here.)
When doing preliminary research (about 5 seconds worth) about blogging, I realized that I should choose a topic I am most comfortable with and therefore would be considered the expert by industry standards. Blogs, I learned, should contain passion and heart (Really? You know how many worthless blogs there are floating around the internet - ones almost exactly like this??). So, by carefully considering my options, I am proud to self-proclaim that I am the leading expert in all things Dacia. That's right, I am here to write about myself and my Aventures in Dacialand.
Strap on your safety belts, people! Welcome to my world.
When doing preliminary research (about 5 seconds worth) about blogging, I realized that I should choose a topic I am most comfortable with and therefore would be considered the expert by industry standards. Blogs, I learned, should contain passion and heart (Really? You know how many worthless blogs there are floating around the internet - ones almost exactly like this??). So, by carefully considering my options, I am proud to self-proclaim that I am the leading expert in all things Dacia. That's right, I am here to write about myself and my Aventures in Dacialand.
Strap on your safety belts, people! Welcome to my world.
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