How many blogs would a blogger blog

If a blogger did post blogs?

Why, she’d blog as much as a blogger blogs

If this blogger did post blogs!

Now say that 3 times fast.  Sounds like you’re about to hurl one, doesn’t it?

I know, I’m resorting to silly games and alcohol as I try to lure back in any audience I used to have.  Is it working?  Are you still reading my BLOG?

Seriously though, a fellow blogger once posted some pet peeves, one being bloggers who apologize after not having posted in some time.  I had never given it much thought.  After all, it seems only natural to say you’re sorry to a loyal audience that you have abandoned.  And apologies are nice.

I think back to when I first started this blog.  I think of all the great things I was going to accomplish, all the topics I would cover, all the creativity that was going to come spewing out of my fingertips as I would post, post, post away.  I had vowed to maybe not post daily, but at least consistently.  I would work hard to lure in the readers, keep them coming back, watch those stats go through the roof, win all types of blogging awards, get famous, publish a book, snag a movie deal, and eventually become independently wealthy.

And then I got a little lazy.

It happens to many of us, I think.  Life gets in the way.  The creative juices stop flowing.  You end up with 50 or so drafts in your dashboard that you just can’t make work.  You lose your focus, your direction, your will to blog.

So now here I am with a 4-month hiatus under my belt, and I’ve decided that blogger was right.  Being apologetic for your absence shows the assumption that readers have been waiting with bated breath to read what you have to write.  That perhaps every day your subscribers wake up in the morning and think maybe she posted something today and once they see that you didn’t, they resign themselves to another empty day of mediocrity and letdowns, because they will then have to rely on the consistency of the other millions of bloggers out there.

And it also implies that since you’ve now broken the barrier and posted something…ANYTHING…they are now breathing a sigh of relief, because hey, after 4 long dry months, she’s back!

Pretty arrogant, huh?

And since I’m not a diary-type of blogger, I hardly think anyone is wondering I wonder what’s going on with that can’t-be-serious girl?  Did she die?  Has  she been incarcerated?  Is she in rehab?  Yeah, rehab.  That must be it.  She did write about alcohol a lot.

Amanda Who?

So now in the spirit of the great Tweeter, Amanda Bynes, I deny all these excuses for my absence.  I’m alive. I’m not in jail.  And since I’m back with a blogging drinking game, one could surmise that rehab is not in my recent past.  Furthermore, my fingers were not broken, my laptop has not been in the shop, and I still do remember my password, although it did take a few tries.

I did bleach my hair platinum blonde and pump up my lips a bit, but that’s beside the point.

I  never actually stopped writing.  I just couldn’t make anything seem quite publishable.

Not like this gem of a post.

So no excuses here and no apologies, just a new will to blog.  And a chance to 1) sort of reintroduce myself, 2) see if anyone is still out there, 3) see if that Publish button still works, and 4) get you drunk, I guess, as I bring myself to blog once again.

By the way, I was just kidding about that drinking game.  You knew that, right?

Perhaps it’s a good time to point out my disclaimer again.

It’s true.  The zombies have taken over.  It happened while we were texting, reading Facebook statuses, checking emails, playing with Friends.

These are all former souls who used to engage in the here-and-now.  They used to tell jokes (verbally).  They used to laugh.  They used to interact.  They used to focus on where they were going.

Yet now, they’re all seemingly distracted, by whatever lurks on the other side of that cellular device.  They drive (or attempt to drive) while talking, texting, googling a nearby restaurant, pinning random stuff, or posting photos on Instagram.

They can be easily spotted if you look around.  It’s the erratic driver in front of you that just went up on the curb.  It’s the guy going 45 miles on the freeway.  It’s the Chatty Cathy who just blatantly pulled out in front you, all the while laughing into her phone.  You can only imagine that she’s telling the also unfocused recipient on the other end how she almost just caused a 5-car pileup.

At one time, you might have assumed you were witnessing a drunk driver.  But now, it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.  I’m not sure which is worse.

In my own little experiment this week, I decided to count how many drivers were on cell phones this week as I headed home from work.  Note that I was a passenger and not doing this little experiment while driving.  Here in South Carolina, where it’s still legal to use a handheld device while driving, 8 out of 10 drivers were yakking.  Amazing.

Just last week, my afternoon commute almost came to a fatal halt by a dude who simply stopped his truck, basically parking on a busy road. The blaring horns and middle fingers flailing behind him never even made him flinch. No, he was not asleep. And he appeared to have no medical emergency.

He was simply yakking on his cell phone.

At lunch the other day, I had the misfortune of sitting in a booth next to a woman who I first presumed was insane and talking to herself.  No, she was simply catching up on her phone calls.  The fact that she was talking was not annoying in itself. It’s that she was talking loudly. Have you ever noticed when people talk on the phone, their volume goes up? Remember on Beverly Hillbillies when they got a phone call and they all shouted into the phone? It was sort of like that.  After a half hour of “eavesdropping” on this woman, I know almost everything about her.  I know how her kids are doing, I know someone is pregnant. I know she has a family member going to jail.  And I know where she lives.  I also know that if I see this woman again in the same restaurant, I will ask to be seated elsewhere.

And she never even noticed all the disapproving looks all around her.

Let’s not forget the oblivious phone people who, much like zombies, stand in the grocery aisle right in front of the food items that you need to get to, and refuse to acknowledge you trying to figure out that to get that jar of pickles they’re standing in front of.  Isn’t it ironic that these people are always laughing into their phones, as if they’re taunting you?  That, of course, would indicate that they’re even aware of your presence…or your annoyance.  And they’re not.

Not that I’m a violent person, but it’s hard not to wonder if that laughter would stop if that cell phone was lodged deep down in their throat.

Next there’s the woman in the checkout line who’s holding everyone up because she’s talking to her mother as the cashier taps her foot waiting impatiently for her to pay up. Or the woman who just waited through a 10-minute line, only to reach the register and decide to suddenly start a frantic search for that online coupon.

And then, the rudest of all are the cell phone zombies that just bump right into you, because their head is down focused on something apparently quite interesting on their blasted phone.  You have to wonder if you being knocked down to the ground is going to make you end up being a little “joke” on that person’s Facebook status as you unwittingly go viral.

And speaking of things going viral, remember the lady from YouTube that actually walked into a water fountain while texting in a mall and was caught on the security cameras and then blasted across the world?  Yeah, that’s one of the people I’m talking about.  This is worth watching again.

The list goes on and on.  The rude person that you’re trying to talk to that has decided that it’s more important to have a text conversation with another acquaintance than to have a real conversation with you.The idiot that texts while crossing a busy street. The gross people who use the public restroom stall as a phone booth.

Now some may call me a hypocrite, for I could be classified as a cell phone addict myself.  And now that I got my new Samsung Galaxy Note, I feel I have the world at my fingertips at all times.  I fully expect to find out one day that I’ve developed a critical case of cell phone-itis and that my left hand will suffer for the rest of my life. There will be a price to pay for sure for years of absorbing myself in all kinds of needless mobile antics.

Yet I still believe in manners.  I believe in having real-life conversations.  I believe in being aware of your surroundings and being in touch with reality in general.  I also believe in looking where you’re going.

And as I take the time out to look up and around, I feel a little sadness for what we’ve all become.  As I see families sit in restaurants, all staring down at those little contraptions, I see that interaction is extinct.  There’s no eye contact, no conversation, just virtual communication and sharing.

The zombies are truly taking over.  Be afraid.  Be very afraid.

Our focus today is an increasingly large amount of individuals left vacant by a single hand-held contraption, an evasion of distracted souls sparked by the advancements of technology and the world at one’s literal fingertips.  An explosion that has left ripples echoing across this minor piece of the Universe, ripples that will capture their inner souls and carry them to a place where they will come face to face with other lifeless souls distorted by their trip into virtuality.  A  meeting that can only take place where the edges of cell phone towers meet…the Cell Phone Zone.

Surprisingly enough, the litigant is not a woman.

Two men from New Jersey are calling the sandwich shop out, because apparently size DOES matter, and these men don’t appreciate the exaggeration in Subway’s advertising.  They’re suing for compensatory damages.  Their lawyer is seeking class-action status after claiming sandwiches from 17 shops were measured at less than the advertised foot. They want Subway to change their practices–either stop advertising the sandwich as a footlong or give us all that inch.  The lawyer estimates that the missing bite equates to about 45 cents per sandwich.

Changing that jingle to $4.55…$4.55…$4.55 11-inch longs just doesn’t have the same ring to it now, does it?

The uproar started after an Australian teenager posted a photo of his 11-inch sub last week alongside a tape measure, on the Subway site on Facebook.  He prompted Subway to respond.  The photo has gone viral, and now others are posting similar images…all coming up short.

as posted by Matt Corby on Facebook

So I guess doing the “footlong”  will follow the trend of ”planking” and we can expect tape measure sales to rise and measurement pictures to flood the web.  I shudder to think of the sordid images that are going to be shared across social networks among all you sick people out there.

Anyway, Subway responded by stating that the sandwich in the image did not appear to be baked to their standards, although that comment has now been removed from their page.  The official statement now is that the term “footlong” is a creative license thing, and should not be taken so literally as the sandwich’s actual size.

I’m guessing the Subway spokesmen are also men.

I’m pretty sure, though, that their advertising has included some literal references to the measurement of that foot.  I can’t be alone, because their comments aren’t going over too well with consumers.

I have to wonder if it’s time to turn the focus back on Jared and that weight loss thing.  Hey Subway, maybe you could spin this and state in your next commercial that Jared maintains his weight loss BECAUSE he’s not getting that last inch of sub.  You’re doing us all a favor by saving us some calories.  Yeah, that’s what it is–you’re helping us lose weight.

Think about that, and hire me to be your new public relations person.  I’m available.

And personally, I think 11 inches is plenty.  (Get those minds out of the gutter folks–I’m talking subs here!)  I already feel bombarded this month with an overload of weight loss commercials, gym ads, The Biggest Loser, and the war on childhood obesity.  While I may not be through packing on my winter pounds yet, I do find it surprising that now we have a news story of consumers demanding larger servings.  And suing over it to boot.

I get it though.  It’s a matter of principle.  The lawyer states that this “is about holding companies to deliver what they’ve promised”.  If you’re going to advertise a foot, you better realize that a foot is 12 inches, not 11, and you better deliver, or we’ll call you out.  That inch makes a difference.

And now, as I write this, I think I may want in on this thing (unless Subway hires me as a PR person and then I must disclaim this all somehow).  This lawsuit screams for a female litigant, if for no reason but the extra publicity and jokes that could pervade the web.  And I could use some extra blog traffic so I’m willing to be a punchline.

In fact, I’d like to take on all these fast food places.  I can be a consumer advocate.  The Erin Brockovich of the food industry, if you will.  I can see my name in lights as Jennifer Anniston wins her first Oscar for playing moi on the big screen.

I get a little carried away sometimes, I know.

I need a slightly different twist to my lawsuit, so I’m going to “protest” by eating at Subway tomorrow, with my tape measure in tow, so I can measure their 6-inch sub.  Lord, help Subway if it comes up short at 5 inches.

I won’t stop there either, because  I’m not sure Lay’s is putting enough chips in those bags.

And furthermore, I continue what’s now become a soapbox rant by warning all you food establishments that the next time I get a serving that does not resemble the images advertised on TV, the walls of your restaurant, or your menu board, I will be sharing a split-screen image across the world-wide web, so I can get pseudo-famous like this Australian teenager.

If your images show the Whopper appearing as an 6-inch tall burger, I will be less understanding than ever about receiving that sandwich as a 1-inch smashed replica of something you might have put out for your dog that was licked and then rejected.

You see, we all just want what we pay for, what we’re promised, what we expect.  We don’t like to be short-changed.  We don’t like to be ripped off.  And we like to sue.

Size matters, dammit. (And that’s what SHE said.)

As I promised, I emailed him.  And he emailed me right back.. .within minutes.

What have I learned from my new pen pal?  That he still remembers me after all these years.  That he has a great sense of  humor.  That I’m apparently not the only “grown-up” that still writes to Santa.  And that he’s most definitely not hiring, which is a real bummer, because (not that I’m looking, mind you), working for Santa would be awesome.  I was picturing a great cushy telecommuting job that would allow me to Skype into the North Pole as needed, keeping up with wish lists (demand) and possibly using my tired, unused Advertising diploma and my awesome blog network and social network skills (haha) to help steer the children of the world toward items for which there may be more production (supply).

I also decided the benefits would be great.  Time off during the summer would be no problem.  I’d get lots of freebies marked off as overstock.  And the medical plan couldn’t be too bad, since, as a risk,  I’d be lumped in with a bunch of elves which would offset Santa’s bad habits and then some.  How often do elves get sick anyway?

So I got my wish list in to Canada (the closest North Pole branch) and I now I’m on Santa’s radar.  AND I promised to share with you this 2-way correspondence to once again prove that Santa does indeed exist.

It was easy.  I went here and filled in a form letter to Santa, which he received within minutes.  I form-filled some stuff, like my age, how good I’ve been (or not), 3 items for Christmas, and some free-form comments.  The result is below, with some personal data x’d out:

Dear Santa Claus,

My name is xxxxxxx.  I am a girl and I am already xx years old!!  I live in the great city of xxxxxxx.  Of course, that’s in xxxxxxx, United States but I’ll bet you knew that!  This year I’ve been so good that, well, ok, maybe my halo has been to the repair shop a few times this year.

Santa Claus, some things I might like for Christmas this year are: – new Droid smartphone; – winning Powerball ticket; and, – black BMW convertible.

Santa Claus, I almost forgot to say…  I think the North Pole is awesome. I think being one of Santa’s helpers would be an exciting job! In fact, I’m looking for a new job and think I could be a real asset to your workshop. Are you by chance hiring? How are the benefits? Anyway, I can’t wait for you to drop by on Christmas, and I’ll leave out the Snicker bar and Bud Light as usual. Hohohoho!

Love, xxxxxxx

Ok, so it’s not my best literary work, but as I said earlier, it’s a form-fill thing with insufficient space to write my normal 1500 words or so.  And perhaps I got greedy, since I started out only wanting a new phone.  There were 3 blanks to fill, so I went for it…and threw in a hint for a job opportunity.

And here’s my response from the big guy:

Merrrryyyy Christmas xxxxxxxx!

Thank you for sending me your email all the way from xxxxxxx!  HO!! Ho!! ho!!  Did you know there are lots of elves in xxxxxxx?  I hear they like visiting xxxxxxx because there’s a special girl by the name of xxxxxxx that lives there!  (*wink*).

Well call me the King of Jing-a-Ling, xxxxxxx!  Are you pulling my leg?!?  You can’t possibly be xxxxxxx years old already!  Why it seems like only yesterday that I was leaving presents for a certain little girl and here you are now, practically one of Santa’s elves! (*grin*)

Sorry the presents the last little while probably haven’t been quite as exciting as they were when you were a little girl but, well, you know how these things go (*wink*).  Anyway, Santa’s glad to see some of the ‘older kids’ (not to mention anyone in particular!) still take the time to write.  (And hopefully still leave out milk and cookies Christmas Eve too! *wink*)  I also hear you’ve been a sorta good girl.  (Of course, you won’t mind if I do a little checking, will you? HO!! Ho!! ho!!).  I see from your email that you like saying “Ho! Ho! Ho!”.  HO!! Ho!! ho!!  I like saying “HO!! Ho!! ho!!” too!

Let’s see what you put in your letter for Christmas wishes: 1. new droid smartphone; 2. winning powerball ticket and; 3. black bmw convertible.  Did you know I had to get rid of my phone?  Every time I phoned the elves they thought my name was ‘Santa Calls’!  HO!! Ho!! ho!!

I am really excited about my new “Santa Webcam”.  I hope you will come watch me live at the North Pole on it right away!

Oops!  I guess I shouldn’t have had that last cookie because a button just popped right off my suit.  I better go see if Mrs. Claus has any thread left!  ho!! Ho!! HO!!  Take care xxxxxxx and don’t forget to come back and visit me here at EmailSanta.com on Christmas Eve!!  And remember…  only 14 more sleeps until Christmas!!

Forever and Always Your Friend,

Santa Claus

Take from that what you will.  But here’s what I walked away with:

1. Santa is not hiring and apparently does not want to discuss it.
2. Santa will eventually find out I wasn’t that good, as he so alludes.
3. Santa likes to make little digs at middle-aged women about their age.
4. Santa knows I leave him Bud Light, yet he refers to milk, with some *winks*.
5. In fact, Santa *winks* a lot, which tells me either a) he has a lot of private jokes,  b) he’s not taking anything I wrote him seriously, or c) he’s into the “milk” already a week before Christmas.
6. I only said “Ho, Ho, Ho” once.  Santa added in a couple of “Ho, Ho, Ho’s” too many, which helps my argument above about the “milk” (*wink*).
7. Santa has a webcam to plug.
8. I probably got greedy, and I’m not getting a darned thing I asked for and I really, really, am in need of a new cell phone, so it would be really easy for me right now to be disheartened.

But my hopes are still high.  My cell phone loses a little bit of functionality every day.  I wasn’t too specific about the winning lottery ticket, so $5 could grant that wish. And just disregard that BMW convertible as a grand illusion, King of Jing-a-Ling, and forget I ever mentioned it.

Instead, please re-think that job opening, Santa (*wink*).  And even if that’s not possible, I’ll still look forward to you stopping by again this year, Santa (*grin*).  And even if you ignore all my wishes, I’ll still have your “milk” waiting for you on the kitchen counter.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!”.  HO!! Ho!! ho!!

]]> http://shecantbeserious.com/2012/12/21/santa-claus-is-my-new-bff/feed/ 6 thCAINR6Z9 szaboinslowmo lamp thCAINR6Z9 soap http://shecantbeserious.com/2012/12/11/yes-there-most-certainly-is-a-santa-claus/ http://shecantbeserious.com/2012/12/11/yes-there-most-certainly-is-a-santa-claus/#comments Wed, 12 Dec 2012 02:37:30 +0000 SheCantBeSerious http://shecantbeserious.com/?p=2289 Continue reading →]]> As Christmas gets closer and closer, something disturbs me.

There seems to be a real effort to discredit Santa Claus, and it gets worse every year.  It’s an injustice.  A conspiracy.  A scandal.  There are real scrooges out there who want to convince us all that Santa Claus does not really exist…and that Mom and Dad are doing all the work.

Perhaps you’ve jumped on the bandwagon yourself and decided that Santa does not actually exist.

For those of you, I have the following to say…

Really?  You think parents are doing all this work, shopping for all these unnecessary things on these long wish lists?  Waiting in lines a mile long, spending all our hard-earned money, running ourselves ragged trying to find some impossible-to-find toy that’s sold out of every shopping mall on this side of the world?

You give us too much credit.  Besides, we know you haven’t been good ALL year long, so it’s best not to pin all your hopes on us.

And it doesn’t matter anyway, because Santa Claus is very much real.

It’s true, and I can prove it.

First, write him a letter and see for yourself. You have to get that wish list to him anyway, and most likely you really need to tell him how good you’ve been all year.  He already knows what all you’ve done wrong, but at least this gives you the chance to own up and act like you’re sorry about it.  I’m a big believer in the written word.  And of course, documenting everything.

Now there are a few ways to get your letter to Santa.

2 lines on an envelope will do it:

Santa Claus

North Pole

Or try this one if you want to get a letter back.  They will redirect it to Santa.  Apparently, he has a branch office in Canada, which makes perfect sense.

SANTA CLAUS

NORTH POLE

HOH OHO  CANADA

And if that’s too slow for you, email him here. (My preferred method)

Then there’s the 2012 NORAD Santa Tracker. Thanks to the North American Aerospace Defense Command, we can all track Santa and his reindeer on their journey around the world on Christmas Eve, starting at midnight, Mountain Standard Time, on December 24th. Tell Mom or Dad to download an app so you can track it from their phone. Tell them it’s worth the data usage, although they may tell you it’s way past your bedtime.  And it may be, so beware.

Now our North American Defense Command wouldn’t make all this up, would they?

Still not convinced?  I understand…you have questions.  Let’s take them one by one:

How does Santa Claus travel all around the world carrying so many toys from house to house, all in one night?

Obviously, Santa is a smart man.  Over at the North Pole, he’s running a top-secret mission of top scientists, engineers, mathematicians, and weather experts.  His sleigh is not nearly as primitive as you may think, as he has all the top gadgets at his chubby little fingertips.  And it’s highly possible that some sort of time travel is involved here.  As he travels East to West, he’s jumping ahead of the time zones, and I’m pretty sure that there’s a little bit of magic up those big sleeves of his.

If you need a more solid answer than that, I’d suggest spending some extra time on your science and math studies, so you can get a grasp of all this.  I didn’t, and you see what kind of answer I’ve come up with.

But the bottom line is…hey, he makes it work every year somehow, doesn’t he?  That’s all the proof I need.

What about all those people who Santa DOESN’T come to see?

That’s a tough question, and there could be many reasons for someone being missed.  Maybe they weren’t good. Maybe they stayed up all night and Santa kept on going, because he doesn’t stop when kids are awake.  Maybe they just don’t believe Santa Claus is real.  Believing is really, really important!

Wouldn’t Santa get stuck in the chimney?  What if I don’t have a chimney?

Well, we know that he visits homes without chimneys, so I’m not sure he’s above just entering through a regular door.  Besides, Mrs. Claus became tired of cleaning that big red suit  decades ago.  The soot was almost impossible to get out.  There’s a rumor that she’s the inventor of OxyClean, but who knows if that’s really true?

Reindeer flying?  A red nose?  Give me a break.

Hello??!!  Magical reindeer dust!

How could Santa possibly know who’s good and who’s bad?

Well if he knows when you are sleeping, and he knows when you’re awake, why wouldn’t he know when you’ve been bad or good…for goodness’ sake?

Santa couldn’t live in the North Pole. It’s uninhabitable.

Aaahhh, that’s what he would LIKE for you to think.  If you thought you could just go trekking up to the North Pole to visit his top-secret workshop, you would do so, wouldn’t you now?  Don’t forget…he’s got NASA, national governments, those weather experts, and geographers on his side, among many other impressive, professional, really really smart people.  A cover-up?  Perhaps, but it’s all in the spirit of Christmas, so it’s okay.

Explain how Santa can be in every mall, yet still be overseeing the workshop.  Isn’t he too busy this time of year for all of that?

Good question.  I used to wonder the same thing myself as a kid.  Your parents could be right in saying that these are Santa’s helpers, employed by the big guy in the red suit himself.  Then again, I do happen to know that he fulfills some of these duties himself, so it’s very possible that you’re sitting on the REAL Santa’s lap.  He’s got to stay in touch, you know?

Where does Mrs. Claus fit into all of this?

She does way more than preparing that Santa suit.  Obviously, her biggest job is moral support for Santa, because his job can get quite stressful.  And she watches those elves while he’s out and about, because they can get a little crazy when they’re left alone.  She also keeps Santa’s belly full, as we can see for ourselves.  And come January 1st, don’t think she’s not in charge of Santa’s diet, hohoho.  There’s a price to pay for all those cookies and milk he consumes on Christmas Eve.  Those reindeer are known to have a few bellyaches too.  Can you just imagine?

All those elves working around the clock?  Isn’t that breaking some kind of labor law?

Anywhere else, that could be the case, but not at Santa’s workshop!  There are shifts just as there are in any other job.  It may get crazy in December, but these elves get plenty of time for fun and relaxation.  And I hear they like to play around on Twitter a lot, and many of them play Words With Friends.  You just don’t know who they are, because they remain anonymous.

Who else is eating the cookies and milk, coca-cola, coffee, or the  good stuff that we leave him at my house?

All I know is that he makes a mess at our house every year.  I’ll forgive him for not throwing away his trash or putting the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, but I swear I think a couple of those reindeer have been allowed to have an indoor snack.  I’ve learned they love Cheerio’s, but they make a real mess of them as they knock them off the plate and smash them with their hooves.  Those crazy reindeer!

And finally, does Santa only leave gifts for children?

Another great question.  I’m trying something new out myself this year.  As a mom, I’ve been pretty good, I think.  I definitely plan to be conked out when he comes passing through.  And I will most definitely believe with all my heart.

See, my cell phone is on its last breath, and I just don’t think it will make it through the next couple of months as I need it to.  And I just don’t think I can do without.  So I’m putting all my energy into making sure Santa knows that I’d looooove a new one this Christmas (hint, hint, wink, wink)!

And of course, I’ve got to plead my case for being good.  So I’m going to email my own letter to Santa, and when I get a response, it will be published right here.  Check back here to see what happens, and don’t forget to track Santa on December 24th.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Yet the media has been pointing out these crazy Black Friday people, such as the ones at Best Buy that have been there for days already.

My apologies to all Black Friday shoppers who may get offended here.  I did it years ago when my girls were young.  I understand saving some bucks.   I get it that the economy is bad.  I also understand that the current economy has now directed that this stuff starts earlier and earlier each year.  Back in my day, all I had to do was wake up at 4 or 5 a.m. in the morning.  That was nothing.

But It’s gotten ridiculous.

In short, if you’re currently sitting in line, camping out, at Best Buy, missing the entire Thanksgiving holiday with your loved ones as you strive to save a few bucks on your Christmas gifts, you need to stop and question the meaning of gift-giving, family, and the holidays entirely.  Just my 2 cents worth…

I’m done.  And I refuse to rant any further on Thanksgiving-Eve.

However, I would like to take this post as a chance to wish all my internet readers a really Happy Thanksgiving, and in particular, I offer this advice:

• May all family feuds be resolved on this day.  Time to bury all hatchets.
• May no alcohol cross the path of any Thanksgiving partaker until at least after the first helping.
• May no turkey be tossed across the dinner table.
• May no one feel they’re family outcasts and end up spending the day in the backyard shed, the garage, or the front porch.
• May football go your way, whichever way that shall be.
• May the day end with everyone feeling truly thankful for all the positive things in their lives, forgetting the negativity, and gaining an increased appreciation of family (keeping in mind that we all have to get together again at Christmas!).
• And shall everyone remember that family is precious, things to be thankful for are too few, and that there’s nothing that can happen (hopefully) that you and your family won’t look back at and laugh at hysterically one day.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

The real truth is that I really just wanted this image of Channing Tatum on my front page for a while.

I know what you’re thinking.  Hey blogger, Channing’s 32 and, well, you’re not.  By the way, aren’t you married with daughters?  What kind of example are you setting for them, you cougar, you?  Refer back to Cougars, Jaguars, Bobcats…Oh My!  I’ve already covered that subject, thank you.

But since you reminded me, let me post one of those magical images here too.

I wholeheartedly agree with the voters of People Magazine.  Channing is well-deserving, particularly when he’s out on that dance floor.  He’s hunky, seems like a nice guy, can act, and then there’s that dancing thing again.

But I do have a point here.  It’s the award itself.

Every year, People Magazine names a new Sexiest Man Alive.  This raises some questions for me.

• Can you prove that this contest was legit?  Were the questions posed to readers fair and impartial?  Were they at all slanted in Channing’s direction because of all the hype about the Magic Mike movie?  Was there an agenda…a conspiracy even?
• Was the voting process fair?  I mean, I didn’t vote.  I didn’t even know I could vote or how to vote.  Why wasn’t I informed?  Did the media report this?
• There should have been a debate, a documentary, a dance-off.  Why were we would-be voters deprived of all this?
• Did anyone vote more than once?  Did all the votes count?  Can we have proof that it was a fair process?  And is anyone demanding a recount?  Like say, the runner-up, whoever that was?
• Did our fine women in the military get to vote?  And was this only up to women?  Were men allowed to vote in this process?  Were all rights equal?  This is America, by the way.  Or maybe it’s an international thing.  That’s another question I have.  Where’s the colored map, I ask you?
• What did he win?  A trip, money, a certificate?  A free 12-month gym membership?
• Channing and previous recipients of this high honor have all been Hollywood actors.  Does this mean People Magazine doesn’t think a fireman, a plumber, or even a computer geek can be THE SEXIEST MAN ALIVE?  Did the representatives of People Magazine research every man on earth to finally determine that Channing Tatum, at least for this year, is truly THE sexiest?
• And if so, how can I apply for that job for 2013?
• Lastly, what happens next year when someone else is named Sexiest Man Alive?  Is Channing going to feel like a has-been?  Like Bradley Cooper, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Johnny Depp, to name a few?  Is there some kind of Hall of Fame for all the “Sexiest Men” that I can go visit and where would that be?  I’m dead serious about that, as I’m planning next summer’s vacation.

As I conclude, I feel some more eye candy is required here to balance out this page, because I’m all about being fair and balanced.  So I present you with some Used-To-Be-The-Sexiest-Men-Alive-But-Aren’t-Anymore images.  Enjoy.

Sorry, Nick. I couldn’t resist.

We haven’t forgotten you, fellas.

At first I was impressed when you held the door open for me as we exited the office building today.  Chivalry is not dead, I thought to myself.

When you held the second door, I thanked you.  What a nice, young, well-dressed boy, I thought.  He’s got the tie going on, the nice polished shoes, cleanly shaven, a real young professional, an up-and-comer, if you will.

And then you spit.

Let’s reflect.  Your pace was slightly quicker than mine, which was a good thing because when you were about 10 feet in front of me, I watched you boldly glance back and hock one right in my direction.

Did you happen to notice that you were walking into the wind when you did so?  I thought perhaps you might, and I slowed my pace.  He’s probably embarrassed, I thought, since he just spit into the wind and the spray is heading my way.

But apparently I over-estimated you, because you spit a second time.  Right in my direction.  Again.

Please help me understanding the act of spitting.  Is your mouth so full of saliva that you just need to release the overflow…not once, but twice?  Do you salivate more than the rest of us?  Are you seeing a doctor for this condition?  What do you do when you’re indoors.  Do you spit there as well?

Or is this learned behavior?  At some point in your life, did you decide that expelling saliva is an act of coolness?  That it reinforces your manliness, increases your virility, takes you back to the Neanderthal world  in which you were apparently were raised?

Or are you marking your territory much like a male dog leaving his scent?

I saw no signs of illness, no cough, no congestion, not even a runny nose.  I saw no outline of a Skoal can in the back pocket of your dress slacks.

So I’m a bit confused.  These are questions to which I’ll never have answers, I know.  But let me just say this as I step up to my soapbox if you could please refrain from spitting on it:

In many states, the act of spitting is illegal.  A minor crime, mind you, but illegal nonetheless.  At the very least, it’s disgusting, and no one appreciates the bacteria you’re so eager to spread around, particularly within a 10-foot vicinity of myself.

Maybe it’s ironic that it doesn’t bother me in the least when a baseball player cops a spit on the turf.  I, myself, may have even laughed when a girl on my daughter’s soccer team spit, because, “hey, we’re tough, we have a girl on our team who spits, so you should be afraid of us”.  And I admit to laughing at the train wreck of “bad girls” on TV who get in brawls after one of them hocks a loogie at the other.

But in a somewhat civilized society, I’d still call it a faux pas to spit in the path of a woman trailing behind you, or anyone else for that matter.

Especially when the wind is blowing downstream.  Oh, did I mention that already?

So next time, don’t bother holding that door for me, Mr. Cool Dude, because I’d prefer to be left far, far behind you. I don’t want to see your spit.   I don’t want to walk in your spit.  And I certainly don’t want to wear your spit.

Karma, buddy, Karma.

Sincerely,

The Lady Behind You

Accept that some days you’re the pigeon.  And some days you’re the statue.

They have left me no choice.

With no post in weeks on what may appear to be an abandoned blog, I’m forced to bring my forbidden subject to this site, where I can write about what I want, when I want, and I can switch back and forth to my other tab in a last-minute attempt to pick up some last minute free agents just in time for week 6.

So as I dust the cobwebs off this site, I give you. . .

27 Signs That You’re Overly Obsessed With Fantasy Football

1. You spend weeks trying to think of the perfect team name.
2. You participate in more than 2 mock drafts.
3. You arrange your vacation around Draft Day.
4. You show up on draft day with spreadsheets filled with notes and stats and several colors of highlighters.
5. You’ve added one more addiction to your cell phone by putting the Fantasy Football app on your front page.
6. On Sundays you find yourself refreshing your stats every few minutes.
7. You refer to your fantasy players as your “peeps”.
8. You spend the first half hour on Monday mornings discussing your fantasy results with your co-workers.
9. You spend the next half hour on Monday mornings researching players to pick up off the waiver wire for next week.
10. You greet people by asking “How’s your fantasy team doing?”.
11. Someone mentions an NFL player and you immediately interject with “He’s on my team!”  as you then ramble about some random fantasy football experience.  And you fail to notice that they’ve walked away.
12. You’re more upset than normal when your cell phone battery is dead…and it’s Sunday…and you have no access to your @&*% stats.
13. When you win, you proclaim yourself a fantasy god.  When you lose, it’s stupid luck.  And so you keep pointing out that had you played that guy on your bench with over 20 points, your opponent would have been dog meat.
14. You refer to your vacation as a bye week.
15. By week 6, you’ve already replaced half of your original team.
16. Your opponent is somehow distracted and you refuse to remind them their starting tight end has a groin injury.
17. You’re still beating yourself up by wasting your first round draft pick on Chris Johnson.
18. You brag about the guy you just picked up off the waiver wire and you have no idea who the hell he is.
19. You watch the simulated game on StatTracker instead of live TV.
20. You panic when your fantasy player has 0 points and you can’t determine if he’s actually even in the game.
21. You’re so busy celebrating your Monday night win and the fact that nobody in your league had Golden Tate that you completely miss the controversial call against Green Bay until you see the highlight the next morning.
22. Worse yet, when your husband wakes up from falling asleep and asks you the final score, you realize you don’t even know.
23. You feel shame about wishing for some real injuries so you’ll have the chance to pick up their replacements on the waiver wire.
24. You have no favorite team.  Even worse, you completely shed your loyalty to your favorite team as you root for your fantasy player to make a touchdown against them–just so you can be the week’s high scorer in your league.
25. You have really strong opinions about players who you’ve never watched actually play.
26. Your Facebook friends think you’re weird because of your whiny post about Brian Hartline scoring 42 points and being on your bench.
27. You talk about your fantasy team with people who clearly don’t care.  And you don’t really care that they don’t care.  Perhaps you even write a blog post about it.

But after a quick check of recent comments, I’ve taken a complete U-turn and am going a different route.  A nerve has been touched.

Sigh.

It was bound to happen.  When we bloggers put ourselves out here as we do, we’re fair game for vicious attacks from those who hide behind their anonymity.  In particular, when you make attempts at humor, some posts are going to fall flat.  Some posts will be funny only in your own mind.  And yet other posts are going to be met by readers who thank you for giving them a good laugh.

And any of the above posts could be read by a person who not only fails to find humor in your subject matter, they find it offensive enough to blast you in your comments.  By “blast”, I mean make personal attacks by calling you a cyber-bully, a hater, one with anger issues, one who needs a life, or one who spends too much time carrying on in a blog when she should be spending quality time with her children.  Wait a minute, she forgot “mean girl”.  Is that still a hot buzzword?  Can I be one of those too?

This is me. Cold, shiny, hard plastic.

Puh-leez.

The post that offended pertained to the apparently delicate subject matter of snacks for soccer kids.  I called the post “The Daunting Snack Assignment”.  What some may refer to as “carrying on” I refer to as finding humor. Some got my humor, including my daughters.  Apparently, however, an avid soccer-snack-seeker did not and felt the need to eject word vomit in my comment section.

If the intent was to anger me, it didn’t really work.  I’m more bewildered than offended.  I find it odd that with all the offensive material on the internet these days…the porn, the language, the violence, the political debates… this person focused her attack on on my little obscure post about extreme soccer snacks.

I’ve often wondered how I would react to my first hate mail.  Would I decide that I had then arrived in the blogging world?  That I would be happy to have some controversy that would pick up traffic?  Or would I back-pedal, and retract all my attempts at humor and then delete my offensive post in order to make the world a better place?  Would I then change my blog theme to sunshine, lollipops and rainbows and turn my focus on trying to spread joy and peace across the lands?

Or would I just use that Moderate Comments function that allows me to pretend the obnoxious commenter never “graced”  the presence of this site?

Nah, I took none of those routes.  I came out swinging.

That’s right.  Anyone that would take to time to complain about a blog post where I made fun of another discussion thread must be really naive to think that they’re not going to be fodder in my next post.  Anyone who knows me can tell you that I have this weird thing about having the last word.

In case you’re curious, I responded quite verbosely, as I tend to do.  I will give you the abridged edition by including my closing lines only.

Anger issues? Hater? Cyber-Bully?  I get that you’re up on all the latest buzzwords.  Perhaps a dictionary is needed so you can look up those terms before you start throwing them around so easily.

Maybe while you’re at it, you can Google how to lighten up and get a sense of humor.

Now let me end this with a Z-Snap.

Z-Snap:  When a person (usually a girl) snaps three times in the air in the shape of a Z. People do it to mean ‘oh no she DIDNT!’ or ‘u got told!’ It’s gotta be done with a lot of attitude.  ~Urban Dictionary