Facebook etiquette: the new Frontier

I have a question, you guys. Kind of a dilemma.

How do you de-friend someone on Facebook if you want to remain their friend in real life?

I seem to have a few friends who, while perfectly lovely people to hang out with and have civilized conversations with, display what is I assume their true colors on Facebook. They trumpet opinions, they attack others, they make sweeping generalizations and self-aggrandizing statements. And they do it every 20 minutes.

I mean, if you want to do that, start a fucking blog, right?

I would just remove their info feed from my profile but naturally, they're also the kind of people who bring the stuff they've posted up in conversation: "Hey, did you see that [politically skewed and sensationalist] article I posted? What did you think?" I suck at lying unless I've had at least a week to prepare, and I can hardly claim I don't frequent Facebook.

So, to de-friend or not to de-friend? Do you give them an explanation? Quietly drop off their list? Ask them to stop being such douchebags so you can go back to enjoying their company?

I haven't had this much angst since high school. Maybe I really DO have too much time on my hands.

Most of these could have been a whole blog post, but I'm all about efficiency: Random Tuesday Thoughts

Yay! Randomness! Tuesday! Yay! Randomness! Tuesday! Yay! Randomness! Tuesday!

Wait, there was kind of a pattern there. Crap.

Anyway. On to other random things. I was going to post a summary of random bits of judgement, as Becky the Suburban Matron did last week, but then I realized I had other life bits to say. So I'll judge things tomorrow, or possibly Thursday.

My inlaws have declared this Christmas to be a "kids gifts only" Christmas. Which is awesome, because they are possibly the most difficult people on the planet to shop for. I tried to get creative one year and give them symphony tickets, which they professed to have enjoyed, other than the fact that it meant they had to drive into town on a day they normally wouldn't and go somewhere they normally wouldn't and attend something they normally wouldn't and then drive home in a blizzard.

Now I just get them a book (MIL) and beer (FIL).

Though I've been relieved of the obligation of getting them anything, I remain suspicious that they will pass judgement regardless, because I didn't get them anything.

My own parents usually do a "homemade, consumable, or recycled" gift theme, so we don't all end up with so much Stuff. You should try it - you get a lot of wine and chocolate, it's awesome.

My MIL manages to squeeze a dishtowel for me into every care package she sends for my son. I have NO IDEA WHAT THAT MEANS. I don't do enough dishes? I do too many dishes? I need a dishwasher? The 47 dishtowels I have already aren't sufficient?? What, woman, WHAT?

I have decided I'm going to participate in NaNoWriMo. I know, clearly I have too much time on my hands. Ahem.

Blogging will suffer. I'm sorry, or alternately (if you think my blogging sucks), you're welcome.

Remember the fiasco with UPS and my undelivered boots? The ones they promised to deliver between 2:00 and 5:00, and yet, according to their own tracking, showed up at 12:30? The ones they claim they attempted to deliver 3 times despite the fact that someone was home the entire time? Yeah, that.

Now they've invoiced me for the brokerage fees, invoiced the company I bought them from for shipping them BACK, and have informed that same company that my "front desk" refused the package because it didn't want to pay said brokerage fees.

Guess who's getting a strongly worded letter informing them where they can shove their brokerage fees?

There may be addendums to that letter, also, including but not limited to: copies of the cute little postie notes they left informing me they'd show up between 2:00 and 5:00; copies of their own tracking detailing when they actually DID show up; and a video showing how, exactly, my dog reacts when someone happens to knock on the door of my "front desk", lest there be any confusion as to whether someone might have overlooked their arrival.

Possibly I'll include a picture of my finger, too, if I'm feeling jaunty.

Anyway. Got some judging or venting or random bits of information to get out of your brain, too? Shake out the Hallowe'en cobwebs and smear them on a blog post! Random up!

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I've got this AND the crack habit under control, thank you for asking

Todays post is brought to you by everybody's favorite beverage, COFFEE. Why? Because Blissfully Caffeinated just gave birth to the beautiful and perfect baby Half Caff, and it sounds like she had a bit of a time of it. So Jenni and Sprite's Keeper suggested we all post about coffee, to let Bliss Caff know we're thinking of her.

I have a love-hate relationship with coffee. I'm madly, passionately, in love with it. I love the enticing aroma, the fragrant beans, the whole OCD process of making the perfect cup. I love it black, with its sharp edge and impenetrable depths, and I love it sweetened (brown sugar or honey). Add cream and it's practically a fucking dessert.

At one point in my life, however, I loved it a little TOO much. It was college.

Don't the addictions always crop up during college?

I would get up in the morning, have a couple of cups of coffee, and get on the Skytrain to go to school. That took, like, an hour, so by the time I got there I really needed that triple mocchacino from the coffee cart. Then I had a really boring class or two, so I needed another triple after that.

But I never had any coffee after noon! Hey, you have to make rules sometimes.

About halfway through my second year of college my stomach went into revolt. It told me I had to cut out the caffeine or the booze, one of the two, or it wasn't going to let me eat any more of those chocolate-chocolate-chip cookies from the cafeteria, and oh yeah maybe make me throw up some blood.

Clearly, I had to decaffeinate. So I did it in what seemed the most reasonable manner - cold turkey.

I slept for 3 days straight.

I stayed decaffeinated for about a year, at which point my stomach and I came to a tentative understanding. I would only drink one cup of coffee a day, two MAX, and if I ever felt it get out of control I would quit.

I've danced back and forth over that line over the years, but for the most part I stick to that rule. I only have one cup of coffee a day. I mean, it is kind of a BIG cup. When I offer it to guests at my house - "would you like the big mug or the little one?" - their reaction often includes bulging eyes. So maybe it counts as two cups.

Well, and sometimes I have two of those. So, four cups.

Hm.

Excuse me, I'm going to go see if the detox centre has any openings. And maybe throw up some blood.

How to avoid the Zombie Flu, er, H1N1, if you don't trust the vaccine like certain paranoid individuals

This is kind of remedial, but I know people forget to take care of themselves. Especially Moms. I'm pretty sure that's why the H1N1 has been doing away with otherwise healthy women; they were too damn busy taking care of everybody else.

So! Listen up, class:

1. Wash your hands. Sing Happy Birthday while doing so. I don't know why your hands need to be serenaded, but it's in all the literature. Possibly your singing will scare the germs away.

Don't ask me about hand sanitizers, because you'll just get a rant about breeding new supergerms that are going to garrotte us in our sleep. I'm sure they're fine though.

2. Drink lots of hot liquids. Y'know, coffee with Baileys, mulled wine, hot rum toddys.

3. Ingest things that have a lot of Vitamin C. Like Screwdrivers and mimosas.

4. Gargle with salt water. It's okay, I'm sure YOU look totally dignified.

5. Rinse your nasal passages with salt water. I use a neti pot (or as hubby calls it, my "nose flute"), and have for years. I've been trying to teach my toddler, but he screams like he's being waterboarded. He's just not trying, I swear. It's like he wants to get sick.

6. And finally, if you're sick, STAY THE FUCK HOME. Quit trying to be a hero. You'll infect the rest of the office, who will infect the FedEx guy, who will show up at my house with a package and...you see where this is going, right?

Do you want to be responsible for the FedEx guy getting shot in the face because I thought he was a zombie?

No, I didn't think so. Stay healthy, everybody.

The future would appreciate it if I didn't take up quilting: Random Tuesday Thoughts

It's that day, y'know, the one with 'Tue' in it.

On a totally unrelated note, did you know tue means 'kill' in french?

Anyway.

I've been somewhat in absentia this past week in the blogosphere, because I've been sewing a dress for FoN's eldest. She needs it for her choir performances. I honestly don't mind, even though I know a bunch of you are now snickering because I don't seem like I should be able to sew, but it's really making me dread having a teenager. If this is the level of participation required to parent a child in high school, I'd like to just stunt mine at the age of 2, if you don't mind.

YES, I really can sew. Honest. Occasionally I cook, too. Let's not spread that around, ok?

I've also been busy being a human comforter for my son, who's been feeling under the weather. There's been no vomit this time, thank dawg, but he's been running a fever off and on and generally being listless. I'm convinced it's the swine flu, not because I'm a paranoid person, but because I publicly announced my intention to NOT vaccinate him against it, and that would just be the way my life works.

Okay, that makes me sound a little paranoid.

I maybe won't mention how I think the the H1N1 vaccination is just an evil plot to spread a zombie virus.

These are awesome: Old war photographs, with superheros in them. THE WAY IT SHOULD BE.

Remember that Large Hadron Collider that was supposed to be creating a mini Event Horizon? I never understood why you'd do that, because the first movie was bad enough. But anyway, lots of things have been going wrong with it, thwarting scientists' attempts to suck us all into a black hole. Now there's a theory being floated that the Higgs boson, the theoretical particle that they're trying to prove actually exists, is creating the problems from the future to ensure it isn't discovered.

Maybe I watched too much Star Trek, but I'm totally buying that.

So, you can't use "but the black hole ate my homework!" as an excuse this week. Random up, you guys!

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Does this dream mean I need a new uterus, or a new butt? Or possibly that I should be a little more clear when giving directions?

In my dream the other night, my friend wanted me to be with her while they performed a surgical procedure. In this procedure, a centipede was inserted into her open abdomen. This was a miraculous centipede, which, like maggots feasting on only dead flesh, would only eat the rotten parts of her uterus and then crawl out (presumably to take a nap).

I told her I would be with her, and hold her hand, but I couldn't watch because they were going to perform the same procedure on me and I didn't want to know what was going on down there.

Her centipede performed admirably. When they performed it on ME, they removed the surgical drapes to reveal that not only had the centipede eaten my entire uterus, but all the way clear through to my ass.

So then, obviously, I needed a new ass. They weren't going to replace my plumbing, but asked me what kind of rear end I wanted. I said, with typical wishy-washiness, "Oh, y'know, an ass. They're all the same."

Naturally I ended up with saggy mom-butt, rather than the glorious firm supermodel hiney I had envisioned.

I have no idea what this dream meant, or why I'm even sharing it with you, because now you're all picturing me with no ass.

Seriously, stop it.

A few observations on a Metallica concert

1. I am WAY too old for "standing room" tickets.

2. Hubby is apparently also way too old to hoist me onto his shoulders so I can flash the band. Hmph.

3. Fire and lasers are awesome, and should probably be included in every live music show. Giant lighting rigs shaped like coffins are also cool, but probably not terribly appropriate for, say, Alicia Keys.

4. Want me to have fun? Drop hundreds of beach balls from the ceiling.

5. Metallica attracts fans in all shapes, sizes, colors, and ages. Also, the children of all of those people.

6. There are always assholes who think the "no smoking" signs don't apply to them.

7. Earplugs are your friend, and I probably should have remembered them. Really, really should have remembered them.

8. I'm sorry, did you say something?

9. If you somehow manage to get up on stage, expect to be immediately and violently tackled by 400 pounds of Security personnel. You should probably also expect to be frogmarched off the stage by 800 pounds of Security, while the band giggles over the photographers' shots of you getting your eye sockets crushed into the metal staging.

10. ...Pretty much anybody can be taught to bellow the refrain to "Seek and Destroy".

We were close enough to see their thinning hair. Wait, that was EVERYBODY in the stadium. Well, we were really close. This isn't very wordless.

It's Thanksgiving, I'm told I should be glad to have friends like these: Random Tuesday Thoughts

(So, I'm probably still on the road trying to find somewhere to get a decent breakfast and knock the ringing out of my ears. My BFF FoN was bullied into offered to host this weeks Random Tuesday. Rock on, ya'll, and happy Canadian Thanksgiving.)

Hi everybody! Keely is off head banging at the Metallica concert today so she’s asked me to host the very fetching weekly brain dump that is Random Tuesday Thoughts! This was very nice of her since I’ve been a little ‘meh’ on the whole blogging thing lately, and I needed an assignment to get me back in the swing of things. Shall we get started?

So, Keely went to Winnipeg, Manitoba to see Metallica in concert. This is very appropriate since Winnipeg seems to be the place that 80’s headbangers go to die. Seriously, the whole city is one giant Motley Crew look-a-like contest. I went to a mall in Winnipeg a few months ago and saw this woman pushing a baby stroller who looked exactly like Lee Aaron. And she was wearing skinny jeans with high top runners, a tank top with her boobs hanging out and had a leather fringe purse with some feathers tied to the strap. The best part? Her jeans were low enough that I could see her tramp stamp. It read ‘I like it doggy style’.

I was in Winnipeg this weekend too. Not to see a aging group of has-beens who haven’t put out a good record since the late eighties concert, but because my mother lives there and up here we celebrate thanksgiving in October. The Canadian thanksgiving is pretty much the same as the American thanksgiving in that we eat turkey until we puke, watch football all day and review all the things we should be thankful for. Then we drink too much and get in a huge screaming fight and drag up all the old arguments we haven’t visited in years and make sure at least one person is crying before we all eventually pass out. Good times.

It fucking snowed her this weekend. SNOWED. I still haven’t recovered from last winter’s cold and wretched death grasp. I can’t deal with this for another seven months and I plan on being a raging bitch straight through to May. I fucking HATE winter. Yeah, I know I live in Canada. I stay for the health care.

How’s that going down there by the way? Have the republicans managed to convince everyone that if poor people get access to healthcare all the grandmothers in the country will be executed firing squad style? I mean, because that seems totally reasonable.

Is it weird that all my parents friends have gotten SUPER old and are retired and looking at moving into condos and downsizing because they don’t want to ‘deal with the stairs’ anymore, and yet somehow I haven’t aged a day?

Alright – I think that’s it for me. Thanks Keely for letting me squat here for the day. And don’t worry; I didn’t touch your comic books or any of that other weird geeky shit you like. I tried to clean up after myself, but you might find the odd reality television show or happy meal lying around. If you do, just try the fries. They are delicious.


If you want to lie on Keely’s couch and spill your guts link up with this thing –


I’ll try and stop by and say hello.

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The stadium has a SPA, right?

So, as mentioned, tomorrow we're off to Winnipeg bright and early* to see Metallica in concert, and my MIL is staying in our house to look after our son.

I think I have everything covered on my checklist.

Black clothing and barely repressed anger...check.

Road trip snacks and Go Girl...check.

Clearly labeled box of dildos under the bed, nightstand full of bottles of booze, and medicine cabinet stuffed with arsenic and eyeballs...check.

Impeccably clean house ready to pass the white glove test...ah...well...fuck it.

It'll give her something to do.



*So, like, 11am.

Dear So-and-So

I haven't done this in a while. It's good fun. If you want to play, head on over to Kat's and grab her butt.



Dear FTC,

Thank you for scaring the crap out of some of my bloggy friends. I'm curious as to how an American institution thinks it can police the entire Internet. I'm Canadian. Come n' get me.

Love,
Loves a freebie


Dear Mother Nature,

Fuck you. No, really. I don't care if you hit my house with a hurricane, it needs to be said.

Love,
Stood up by Summer


Dear 30 Day Shred,

You're 20 fucking minutes long. How hard can you be?

Love,
Also Taunts Rabid Dogs

Some people climb into tiger cages, I set myself up for situations like this

I may have mentioned this, but probably not, because I don't need to tell you people ANYTHING, okay? October is a busy month and I actually just noticed in any meaningful way that it was sneaking up on me. Next week, I'm going on another little concert road trip. This time I'm going with the hubster.

That pretty much means we could only be going to see ONE band, and that is Metallica. Now, I like Metallica, but I wouldn't consider myself a true fan. Hubby, on the other hand, belongs to the fan club. That means he gets little perks like pre-sale tickets and a chance to meet the band.

I'm actually kind of afraid that will happen. There is nothing more terrifying for someone as socially inept as me than the thought of not only having to meet total strangers, famous strangers, but famous people of whom you aren't really a fan. Um, awkward? "Hi, I'm Keely, I couldn't tell you your name if you held a gun to my head, let alone your birthday or what instrument you play, which is probably okay since you know that stuff anyway right? Being that you're you and all? Also, I haven't listened to anything of yours with any kind of regularity since Ride the Lightning when I was 16 and really drunk, but I used to do THAT all the time. For real! ....so, do you ever think you might cut your hair?"

Actually, the only thing more terrifying to me is what is actually going to happen, and that is that my MIL is coming to stay with our son. In my house. Without me. She will be in my house, unsupervised, for over 24 hours.

Gah. I mean, which direction do I take this? Do I clean frantically and hide all the incriminating evidence?

Or do I just distract her from all the little deficiencies with something glaringly obviously, like a boxful of wiggly neon dildos?

Decisions, decisions.

I'm brain dead so I'm just rehashing the Interwebs for you: Random Tuesday Thoughts

Soooo, it's Tuesday. Oh yes it is. I guess that means you're expecting a post out of me, huh?

Well, I gotta warn you, it was my kids birthday this weekend and apparently hosting a party for a 2 year old is exhausting. All that screaming and red food dye and...energy. It's draining.

But, anyway, here goes.

Two idiots men scaled a 15 foot wall lined with barbed wire into the pen of a Siberian Tiger at the Calgary Zoo yesterday.

Don't worry, the tiger is fine.

(Seriously - how could you possibly think that would turn out well?)

Some very dear friends of ours came to my son's birthday this weekend and brought their 3 year old. They happen to be Catholics, so when I blurted a frustrated "Oh, my GOD!" in reference to our stupid dog and her antics, their son very solemnly told me, "You shouldn't say that."

I apologized, but then I thought, well his Mom says that, doesn't she?

Oh, no, I remembered. She says "Oh my fuck" instead.

And while we're speaking of Creationism, I totally want this shirt.

Someone has created a lamp that is powered by human blood. The premise behind it is energy consciousness - that is, would we turn on fewer lights if we knew it would cost us something?

Uh, no, because it won't cost ME anything. The Jehovahs and Girl Scouts would be a little more cautious about coming to my house during the Festival of Lights season, though.

Everything will be ok, although this website makes my spine hurt for some reason.

Aaaannnndd....what stormtroopers do on their day off. (Don't worry, I already sent the link to Captain Dumbass.)

Phew. Hard work, recycling the interwebby thing like that. You guys must have more independent thought than that - spew it out and link up!

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Oops, it's that time of the month...

No, not THAT time of the month. (That's still all frakked up, thanks for asking.) It's the time of the month where Casey over at Half As Good As You pesters us into logging our fitness & weight loss progress for club HASAY.

Here's where I'm at: the exercises and stretches that Trainer Lady is getting me to do are helping my effed-up back immensely. She's given me the green light to get back to working out, provided I stretch and roll all my muscles out on the Pool Noodle of Pain foam roller and make sure everything is in alignment and pray thricely to the Nautilus Gods and for the luvvapete, take it slow.

But I haven't. I'm doing the strength exercises she's given me, and that's about the extent of it. My back still feels...kind of twitchy. Like, Bobcat Goldwhaite twitchy. I'm terrified I'm going to eff it up again, just when I'm really starting to enjoy the novelty of having free movement and being able to bend down and pick something up without suddenly morphing into an 85-year-old.

Also, I'm lazy. I may have mentioned that. Once or twice.

But I feel awful and I'm tired all the time. The other day, it was pouring rain and my car was desperately in need of gas, because I wait until the gas light comes on like I'm a broke-ass 16 years old. My debit card wasn't working because they sent out these new 'chip' cards and naturally, I tossed the envelope on the kitchen table and forgot all about it and then the old one expired and yes, I know, sometimes I just fucking fail at life, okay? It's hard to be a grown-up.

Anyway. I had forty bucks in my wallet so I put forty in the tank, and went to pay, and the girl in her plexiglass booth said, "Um, you still owe me ten dollars."

Because in addition to failing at life, I also can't count. I only had THIRTY dollars. Awesome. Luckily for me, I was two blocks from home, so I jogged home through the freezing rain and then back again with my new stupid 'chip' card and paid her while she smirked.

The whole point of that little narrative is that after that short, teeny-tiny really, run, my legs were burning, and I was gasping. Hard to believe that 2 months ago I was running 4 kilometres on a regular basis.

Later that same day, as I sat on the couch with my muffin-top spilling over my jeans, encased in a bright orange shirt, my son toddled up and poked it. "Ball!" he exclaimed.

Okay, kid. I get the point.

Michael Bolton makes ME cry too, but not in the same way

So in the interest of moving this little "see a ghost" project along, I fired off an email to the local paranormal society. Their website said they were looking for a sketch artist, which, hey! I could probably do. I mean, all the ghosts would come out looking like superheroes, but whatevs.

They sent me an application form, and said a few reassuring things about their organization, and that I'd be working with two very talented psychics in the group. It all sounded pretty above-board and down-to-earth. And yet I was hesitant to send the form back.

I floated this latest development past hubby, just in case he had some previously unmentioned issues with the paranormal. When I got to the part about the 'talented' psychics, he exclaimed, "Omigod! As long as you're not working with Brownie Girl!".

And in that sentence, he solidified exactly what my hesitance was based on.

I met Brownie Girl when I was in university. I was majoring in Visual Arts, so I hung out all the time with Artists who did things like cast multiple replicas of their own labia. But this girl took the fucking fruitcake. She was very young, and extremely angsty, and seemed to spend a lot of time crying. She talked in a lispy baby voice, crafted hideously-painted cats out of clay and listened to the 'lite' music station at top volume in the communal studio space.

She also claimed to read auras. Now, I really do believe that human beings produce some kind of energy field, and that probably there are some people who can see them. I just didn't believe that SHE could see them.

She told me that my aura was "stressed out". I told her it would get better if she left the room.

She cried. I know, I'm an asshat, but I couldn't help it. I said it as kindly as possible, but I was trying to live my life Drama Free at that point, and she just set my teeth on edge. Anyway, the right Michael Bolton song after 3pm on a Tuesday could make her cry too, so I'm not taking too much ownership of the black hat.

I graduated and presumably she stayed on to graduate as well, and I never thought about her again other than to hope that she gained some maturity or perspective or control over her tear ducts.

Several years later, a friend of mine had a Hallowe'en party. His wife had moved here to be with him, and while she's a lovely and sensible person, she has what some people would consider rather eclectic and alternative interests. In an effort to make some new friends, she'd joined up with a local Wiccan group, most of whom were also lovely and sensible people. Most.

You can see where this is going, right? She invited the Wiccan group to the party, and in the attending numbers was Brownie Girl. Imagine my surprise.

I didn't talk to her much, other than to give her a polite nod (and hope that it didn't make her cry). Later, though, when there were fewer people and I could actually hear her rather loud conversations monologues, I realized that she was just as flighty, awkwardly exuberant, and bizarre. I escaped to the front porch, where my friend joined me and rolled his eyes.

"Uh, how did you befriend HER?" I inquired. He explained his wife's connection, and added, "She and her friend there spent half an hour earlier talking to a Brownie on top of my fridge."

"A brownie?" I perked up. Hey, I like dessert.

"No, a BROWNIE. Like a small faery-type creature. They think there's one living on my fridge. They were having a whole conversation."

I died laughing. And went back into the house to rescue hubby, whom I'd abandoned in a sea of Faery-Finding Whack Jobs.

Anyway. While I may not encounter my erstwhile studio-mate in particular, people with that brand of...enthusiasm still tend to get on my nerves. Signing up for this type of society is probably going to get me back in touch with the froot loop factor.

And I'd hate to be known as the girl who stabbed a "talented psychic" in the ear with a No. 2 pencil.