A while back I shared my beef concerning Facebook ads. Well, today's ads were so funny, I had to share them with y'all:
First: "U.S. Immigration Law" (immigration litigation services -- lol!)
Second: "You're ready to commit." (ad for engagement ring -- funny for very different reasons.)
Third: "Are You Expecting?" (baby stuff -- kinda scary.)
... these were followed by the regular slough of diet/oral contraceptive/retail ads -- and one for suburban D.C. real estate: "TH for Sale Chantilly VA."
Keep up the good work, Facebook. And keep up the blind throwing-of-money-into-the-pit, advertisers.
I love it all.
Tuesday
Only in D.C...
I've been here for more than six months now, but I feel as though I have just recently arrived. After months of new discoveries and realizations I'm starting to feel like a local.
Now, keep in mind that Washington D.C. is a town of transients, so to feel like a "local" -- or be considered one, for that matter -- all one needs to do is stick around for longer than one semester: When the semesters switch, so does a hefty portion of the population. (The younger portion -- the interns -- that make up a significant chunk of D.C.'s "out and about" set, and you can't help but notice...)
That said, with more than 180 days of life in the D.C. metro area, I am feeling pretty comfortable here. I know the neighbourhoods, have favourite restaurants, and rather than walking in circles or needing a pocket map, I am now able to navigate most areas with confidence.
I've also come to recognize what I call DC-isms:
1. Men with Fluffy Hair.
I don't know if it's the humidity or just massive instance of bad sense of style, but the iconic D.C. male has slightly too-long, fluffy-looking hair. It looks as silly as it sounds, but the 'do is rampant within the beltway.
2. Black Luxury Cars.
White, red, blue, or beige would be far too controversial, I guess -- the vast majority of luxury sedans and sports cars are black. I should also note that D.C. has a high ratio of BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes-Benz on the road compared to other cities I've lived -- including diplomat and government worker-filled Ottawa.
3. Personalized License Plates.
OK, this one is Virginia-based, but it is a trend that permeates the capitol. Virginia has more personalized license plates than any other state (according to the radio). My favourite one to date: An older model Honda Civic hatchback with "THE CEO" driving north on Route 7 from Fairfax to Loudoun County a few weeks back. Brilliant.
4. Being Overdressed.
People tend to dress up here. Certainly more than what I'm used to. I'm used to wearing jeans and a sweater to an Irish pub. Here, it's jeans or pants with a collared shirt or equally corporate looking top. This place brings business casual" to a whole new level. And you know what? It's not necessarily a bad thing. As long as I can still wear my hoodie when I want to.
(I should note that a certain WAPO VP gets bonus points for wearing his KU hoodie to the office with jeans. That's the stuff that motivates me to reach for the top and hope I, too, get to the point professionally where I hold the authority to wear my hoodie to the office and not have to worry about getting a talking to.)
5. Running Around the National Mall.
When I first visited D.C. (in 2004, as one of the thousands of notorious interns) I couldn't get over all the people running around the Capital Mall. For those of you who don't know what the CM is, it's a huge green space in downtown D.C. that stretches from the Lincoln Memorial in the west to the U.S. Capital building in the east. The Washington Monument sits in the middle, and various Smithsonian and national museums line its parameter. Knowing this, it doesn't take long to figure out the place is packed with tourists.
I don't know about you, but when I run, I get sweaty (I also get really red in the face and look particularly ridiculous, but let's not get into that) and when I'm all sweaty and disgusting, I tend to avoid crowds. And that is why I always thought those CM joggers were out of their minds.
But! I have come to realize that there are few other places in the D.C. metro area that are accessible to urban residents who don't want to or don't have the car required to drive somewhere to start their run.
So yes, I have become one of them. I've done the loop from my apartment in Arlington, over the Key Bridge into Georgetown, along the GT canal and then down along the waterfront, up to the Lincoln Memorial and around the perimeter of the Mall. I have no idea how many tourists' photos I've ruined (or unknowingly/unwillingly appeared in) but I have thought that it'd be a neat study: How many times you're likely photographed per minute on an average Sunday afternoon along the CM.
6. Aggressive Cab Drivers.
Taxis are being forced to transition from this archaic zone-based system to meters, and the cabbies are mad as hell. No longer will they be able to rip us all off (and claim the trip passed through five zones when it actually stayed within two or three). In protest, they've upped the angry-cabbie-ante. Drivers refuse to take fares who need to pay by credit card (which would require them to declare their earnings! The horror!) and I once waited 45 minutes at the airport as cab after cab after cab refused to take me. (Some actually said OK, but when they learned I wasn't going for a 30-minute ride through gridlocked D.C., which did nothing to improve my opinion of D.C.'s esteemed cabbies.)
Perhaps it goes without saying that I welcome the meters with open arms, and try to walk or metro instead of cabbing it whenever possible.
7. Drycleaners, Drycleaners, Drycleaners.
There is a drycleaner on every block in this town. OK, that's a slight exaggeration but not totally overblown. This is the city that defined the power suit and the power (suit-clad) lunch, so it's no surprise that all those lobbyists and legislators provide a sufficient market.
Drycleaners are to D.C. what delis are to NY or, to a lesser extent, what falafel shops are to Ottawa or sushi joints are to Vancouver.
8. Extreme Diversity.
The distribution of wealth in this city is ridiculous. You have the poorest of the poor living a few blocks from some of the nicest, stately homes on the Hill. My first year in D.C., I walked from my house, through the ghetto, through a not-so-bad area, then out-and-out ghetto, again, to get to work. And that was eight blocks, the short way.
9. People who think they're really, really important.
Sure, D.C. is a town of movers and shakers, but that doesn't mean everyone here is indeed a mover or a shakers. Or even close to being important. I've encountered soooo many aides-to-aides-to-the-assistant-to-the-undersecretary, and interns working with those at the bottom of the totem pole who have this ridiculous sense of entitlement and power.
Ridiculous.
I've also met a handful of legitimately powerful people who are completely down to earth and very, very cool. Don Graham from the Washington Post is at the top of that list, but there are a few others, luckily, who will remain nameless.
Unfortunately they are far outnumbered by the self-important lunatics running in circles trying to make themselves look more important than they actually are.
Now, keep in mind that Washington D.C. is a town of transients, so to feel like a "local" -- or be considered one, for that matter -- all one needs to do is stick around for longer than one semester: When the semesters switch, so does a hefty portion of the population. (The younger portion -- the interns -- that make up a significant chunk of D.C.'s "out and about" set, and you can't help but notice...)
That said, with more than 180 days of life in the D.C. metro area, I am feeling pretty comfortable here. I know the neighbourhoods, have favourite restaurants, and rather than walking in circles or needing a pocket map, I am now able to navigate most areas with confidence.
I've also come to recognize what I call DC-isms:
1. Men with Fluffy Hair.
I don't know if it's the humidity or just massive instance of bad sense of style, but the iconic D.C. male has slightly too-long, fluffy-looking hair. It looks as silly as it sounds, but the 'do is rampant within the beltway.
2. Black Luxury Cars.
White, red, blue, or beige would be far too controversial, I guess -- the vast majority of luxury sedans and sports cars are black. I should also note that D.C. has a high ratio of BMWs, Audis, and Mercedes-Benz on the road compared to other cities I've lived -- including diplomat and government worker-filled Ottawa.
3. Personalized License Plates.
OK, this one is Virginia-based, but it is a trend that permeates the capitol. Virginia has more personalized license plates than any other state (according to the radio). My favourite one to date: An older model Honda Civic hatchback with "THE CEO" driving north on Route 7 from Fairfax to Loudoun County a few weeks back. Brilliant.
4. Being Overdressed.
People tend to dress up here. Certainly more than what I'm used to. I'm used to wearing jeans and a sweater to an Irish pub. Here, it's jeans or pants with a collared shirt or equally corporate looking top. This place brings business casual" to a whole new level. And you know what? It's not necessarily a bad thing. As long as I can still wear my hoodie when I want to.
(I should note that a certain WAPO VP gets bonus points for wearing his KU hoodie to the office with jeans. That's the stuff that motivates me to reach for the top and hope I, too, get to the point professionally where I hold the authority to wear my hoodie to the office and not have to worry about getting a talking to.)
5. Running Around the National Mall.
When I first visited D.C. (in 2004, as one of the thousands of notorious interns) I couldn't get over all the people running around the Capital Mall. For those of you who don't know what the CM is, it's a huge green space in downtown D.C. that stretches from the Lincoln Memorial in the west to the U.S. Capital building in the east. The Washington Monument sits in the middle, and various Smithsonian and national museums line its parameter. Knowing this, it doesn't take long to figure out the place is packed with tourists.
I don't know about you, but when I run, I get sweaty (I also get really red in the face and look particularly ridiculous, but let's not get into that) and when I'm all sweaty and disgusting, I tend to avoid crowds. And that is why I always thought those CM joggers were out of their minds.
But! I have come to realize that there are few other places in the D.C. metro area that are accessible to urban residents who don't want to or don't have the car required to drive somewhere to start their run.
So yes, I have become one of them. I've done the loop from my apartment in Arlington, over the Key Bridge into Georgetown, along the GT canal and then down along the waterfront, up to the Lincoln Memorial and around the perimeter of the Mall. I have no idea how many tourists' photos I've ruined (or unknowingly/unwillingly appeared in) but I have thought that it'd be a neat study: How many times you're likely photographed per minute on an average Sunday afternoon along the CM.
6. Aggressive Cab Drivers.
Taxis are being forced to transition from this archaic zone-based system to meters, and the cabbies are mad as hell. No longer will they be able to rip us all off (and claim the trip passed through five zones when it actually stayed within two or three). In protest, they've upped the angry-cabbie-ante. Drivers refuse to take fares who need to pay by credit card (which would require them to declare their earnings! The horror!) and I once waited 45 minutes at the airport as cab after cab after cab refused to take me. (Some actually said OK, but when they learned I wasn't going for a 30-minute ride through gridlocked D.C., which did nothing to improve my opinion of D.C.'s esteemed cabbies.)
Perhaps it goes without saying that I welcome the meters with open arms, and try to walk or metro instead of cabbing it whenever possible.
7. Drycleaners, Drycleaners, Drycleaners.
There is a drycleaner on every block in this town. OK, that's a slight exaggeration but not totally overblown. This is the city that defined the power suit and the power (suit-clad) lunch, so it's no surprise that all those lobbyists and legislators provide a sufficient market.
Drycleaners are to D.C. what delis are to NY or, to a lesser extent, what falafel shops are to Ottawa or sushi joints are to Vancouver.
8. Extreme Diversity.
The distribution of wealth in this city is ridiculous. You have the poorest of the poor living a few blocks from some of the nicest, stately homes on the Hill. My first year in D.C., I walked from my house, through the ghetto, through a not-so-bad area, then out-and-out ghetto, again, to get to work. And that was eight blocks, the short way.
9. People who think they're really, really important.
Sure, D.C. is a town of movers and shakers, but that doesn't mean everyone here is indeed a mover or a shakers. Or even close to being important. I've encountered soooo many aides-to-aides-to-the-assistant-to-the-undersecretary, and interns working with those at the bottom of the totem pole who have this ridiculous sense of entitlement and power.
Ridiculous.
I've also met a handful of legitimately powerful people who are completely down to earth and very, very cool. Don Graham from the Washington Post is at the top of that list, but there are a few others, luckily, who will remain nameless.
Unfortunately they are far outnumbered by the self-important lunatics running in circles trying to make themselves look more important than they actually are.
Thursday
Blog Confirms The Obvious: I'm White
I love silliness, and one of the silliest blogs out there right now is Stuff White People Like.
Why? Because I'm slightly perplexed. See, I've been thinking I'm white for about 25 years now. I wasn't totally sure, so I recently went through the list to see just how white I am. My lack of rhythm was an indication that I'm pretty white, but I wanted to know just how white I really am – or am not.
The list has 93 items on it right now, and I related to a lot of them. 32 of them, to be precise. I have a love-hate relationship with two of the items on the list, and 12 of them didn't appeal to me at all. So I'm either 34.4% white, or 12.9% not white.
It's great. If you've been living under a rock and haven't heard of it, here's what you're missing: a (growing) list of 90+ things that white people like, and posts detailing why white people like these things.
My white characteristics include liking the following:
If you're thinking, 'hey! That doesn't add up to 93!' it's because you're right: I didn't feel strongly for or against the rest of the things white people like, so I didn't bother mentioning them.
... despite the uncertainties, I'm pretty sure my Ukrainian-English-Italian Canadian pedigree ensures I am, indeed, white. Damn it anyway.
Yet after reviewing the list, I got to thinking: What other things do white people like? My initial thoughts are below, with an asterisk following the ones I, too, tend to like.
Why? Because I'm slightly perplexed. See, I've been thinking I'm white for about 25 years now. I wasn't totally sure, so I recently went through the list to see just how white I am. My lack of rhythm was an indication that I'm pretty white, but I wanted to know just how white I really am – or am not.
The list has 93 items on it right now, and I related to a lot of them. 32 of them, to be precise. I have a love-hate relationship with two of the items on the list, and 12 of them didn't appeal to me at all. So I'm either 34.4% white, or 12.9% not white.
It's great. If you've been living under a rock and haven't heard of it, here's what you're missing: a (growing) list of 90+ things that white people like, and posts detailing why white people like these things.
My white characteristics include liking the following:
- music piracy
- San Francisco
- dinner parties (favourite kind of party, period)
- modern furniture (function before fashion, but fashion, too, please)
- multilingual children (my kids will be moreso than I)
- threatening to move [back] to Canada (performed on a regular basis)
- recycling (militant)
- Toyota Prius (love 'em)
- Juno (fav. movie of the year so far)
- Kitchen gadgets (this makes me white AND 38 years old)
- dogs (down with cats)
- living by the water (it's the way it should me)
- Whole Foods and grocery co-ops (yes, I have cloth shopping bags, too)
- the Sunday New York Times (not that I've had the time to read it lately)
- sushi (love the raw fishies!)
- Apple products (one you go mac you don't go back)
- Arrested Development (seriously funny show)
- renovation (mum, I get this from you)
- breakfast places (bring on the hashbrowns)
- architecture (for sure)
- vegan/vegetarianism (me being bunny hugger #1 and all)
- Manhattan and Brooklyn (damn straight)
- David Sedaris (smart, funny dude)
- wine (Chilean cab or shiraz, or Argentinean malbec please)
- having two last names (perhaps I will one day)
- traveling (not that I've done enough of it as of late)
- tea (make mine rooibus chai)
- Barack Obama (barry's the man)
- diversity (the spice of life)
- organic food (it's good for you and tastes better... what's not to like?)
- farmer's markets (went to mine this morning...)
- film festivals (as long as they don't involve 3-hour films about nothing)
- St. Partick's Day (stupid fake holiday)
- outdoor performance clothes (no thanks, nerd)
- difficult breakups (what's to like?!)
- divorce (" ")
- expensive sandwiches (I almost threw up when I saw a $12 egg sandwich at the Boston airport. are we really that gullible?)
- 80s night (not quite my scene)
- Mos Def (not a fan)
- Asian girls (I've met a lot of them, but have only LIKED a few of them... it's not a get-in-the-good-books free card. sorry. same goes for white/black/red/purple chicks, btw.)
- West Anderson movies (pass)
- religions their parents don't belong to (don't be a poopy pants)
- coffee (yuck)
If you're thinking, 'hey! That doesn't add up to 93!' it's because you're right: I didn't feel strongly for or against the rest of the things white people like, so I didn't bother mentioning them.
... despite the uncertainties, I'm pretty sure my Ukrainian-English-Italian Canadian pedigree ensures I am, indeed, white. Damn it anyway.
Yet after reviewing the list, I got to thinking: What other things do white people like? My initial thoughts are below, with an asterisk following the ones I, too, tend to like.
- Nintendo Wii*
- Medical attention
- Coach handbags/purses with initials on them
- Self-improvement
- Replacing children with pets
- Pedicures
- Theatre*
- Nascar
- Childcare
- Book collections*
- Botox and boob jobs
- Complaining and talking about how busy/stressed-out they are
- Mullets
- Hockey*
- Dark coloured luxury cars, minivans
- Wearing socks in sandals
- Business travel (most often to attend [useless] conferences)
Saturday
Facebook's Ad Strategy: Meh.
Facebook is taking its advertisers for a ride.
“Reach the exact audience you want with relevant targeted ads,” tempts the social networking phenomenon's advertising information page. “Instead of creating an advertisement and hoping that it reaches the right customers, you can create a Facebook Social Ad and target it precisely to the audience you choose.”
It’s all good in theory, it doesn't seem to be the current practice: My Facebook profile is inundated with a variety of ads that range wildly from one to the next.
The ones for American Apparel, fine. I like the clothes from American Apparel, and have visited their website. The banners for gimmicks and novelty t-shirts featuring characters from The Office, too, make sense. (If Dwight would wear one, I probably would, too.)
But HaveTheTalkAmerica and Proactiv Solutions?? What am I, 15? My profile clearly reveals my age, and I think I’m beyond the wonder/acne years. And I’m also years beyond buying anything endorsed by Jessica Simpson.
It gets better: "Join WWE Fan Nation - The official source for the latest WWE videos, photos, widgets and more." Um, no thanks, I'm not dating my cousin, sporting a mullet, or drunk. I have no desire to join any "nation" where grown men with long hair run around in a ring wearing fluorescent-coloured spandex outfits.
Another one of my favourites: “Love handles?” (this alternates with the slightly more appropriate, yet equally offensive, “muffin top?”) Why does Facebook automatically assume that I’m fat? Because I use a profile picture with an image of something other than myself? (It’s a Canadian goose, thankyouverymuch) Whatever.
As if calling me fat wasn't enough, Facebook and its advertisers add insult to injury: Not one, but two "Just break up?" ads. One that offers "instant relief from break up pain and proven plan to win your ex back," and another that offers to "help couples get back together after a break up."
"I'd be thrilled to help you too," the stranger in the ad assures. Great!
A third one goes one step further: "Is He Cheating on You? Find out! Check out our site and learn how to avoid being a victim of infidelity." It's tempting, but my anxiety doesn’t need supplementation, thank you.
Facebook and its advertisers are confident in their ads' ability to penetrate the audience, because a few clicks deeper, away from the break-up ads is another one, this time for Tiffany & Co. engagement rings. I can't help but think, wow, that was fast. But who am I to judge? Someone must be clicking on the damn things.
For all the misguided messaging, I suppose I should to give them credit for hitting the nail on the head in some cases. They know I'm lazy and low-maintenance (Two Minute Hairstyles: Create your own salon quality hairstyle in the comfort of your own home, and in just minutes with Minute Curl) and busy, too. (Time to enjoy life? Why wait when you can start living your life now…) But, then again, aren’t we all? Other seemingly well (or at least better) directed ads also have wide-appeal: Shoes, cell phones, auto insurance, hotels… it's pretty standard stuff.
So much for the "relevant targeted ads.” Seems to me that Facebook's advertisers are doing exactly what the network promises to avoid: creating an advertisement and hoping that it reaches the right customers.
Meh.
“Reach the exact audience you want with relevant targeted ads,” tempts the social networking phenomenon's advertising information page. “Instead of creating an advertisement and hoping that it reaches the right customers, you can create a Facebook Social Ad and target it precisely to the audience you choose.”
It’s all good in theory, it doesn't seem to be the current practice: My Facebook profile is inundated with a variety of ads that range wildly from one to the next.
The ones for American Apparel, fine. I like the clothes from American Apparel, and have visited their website. The banners for gimmicks and novelty t-shirts featuring characters from The Office, too, make sense. (If Dwight would wear one, I probably would, too.)
But HaveTheTalkAmerica and Proactiv Solutions?? What am I, 15? My profile clearly reveals my age, and I think I’m beyond the wonder/acne years. And I’m also years beyond buying anything endorsed by Jessica Simpson.
It gets better: "Join WWE Fan Nation - The official source for the latest WWE videos, photos, widgets and more." Um, no thanks, I'm not dating my cousin, sporting a mullet, or drunk. I have no desire to join any "nation" where grown men with long hair run around in a ring wearing fluorescent-coloured spandex outfits.
Another one of my favourites: “Love handles?” (this alternates with the slightly more appropriate, yet equally offensive, “muffin top?”) Why does Facebook automatically assume that I’m fat? Because I use a profile picture with an image of something other than myself? (It’s a Canadian goose, thankyouverymuch) Whatever.
As if calling me fat wasn't enough, Facebook and its advertisers add insult to injury: Not one, but two "Just break up?" ads. One that offers "instant relief from break up pain and proven plan to win your ex back," and another that offers to "help couples get back together after a break up."
"I'd be thrilled to help you too," the stranger in the ad assures. Great!
A third one goes one step further: "Is He Cheating on You? Find out! Check out our site and learn how to avoid being a victim of infidelity." It's tempting, but my anxiety doesn’t need supplementation, thank you.
Facebook and its advertisers are confident in their ads' ability to penetrate the audience, because a few clicks deeper, away from the break-up ads is another one, this time for Tiffany & Co. engagement rings. I can't help but think, wow, that was fast. But who am I to judge? Someone must be clicking on the damn things.
For all the misguided messaging, I suppose I should to give them credit for hitting the nail on the head in some cases. They know I'm lazy and low-maintenance (Two Minute Hairstyles: Create your own salon quality hairstyle in the comfort of your own home, and in just minutes with Minute Curl) and busy, too. (Time to enjoy life? Why wait when you can start living your life now…) But, then again, aren’t we all? Other seemingly well (or at least better) directed ads also have wide-appeal: Shoes, cell phones, auto insurance, hotels… it's pretty standard stuff.
So much for the "relevant targeted ads.” Seems to me that Facebook's advertisers are doing exactly what the network promises to avoid: creating an advertisement and hoping that it reaches the right customers.
Meh.
Monday
Does Safeway want me to kill myself?
Like many other miserable, mad, recently-singled people, I don’t have much going on on Saturday nights. I don’t have the energy nor the desire to pretend to be happy in public, so I don’t go out. So what’s a mopey girl to do, if the bar scene doesn’t call her name? She goes grocery shopping, of course.
This is what I did last Saturday night. After Sex and the City made me sick and Wedding Crashers was the only alternative to watching the home team get beat by the deplorable Toronto Maple leafs, I had had enough. So, after sobbing around my apartment for far too long, I dragged my depressed ass out and to my friendly neighborhood Safeway. (Hey, it was after 10 p.m.; Whole Foods was closed.)
So there I was, wandering up and down the aisles, putting break-up essentials --- you know, chocolate, ice cream… the crap you think will make you feel better, but ends up making you feel even worse --- into my basket as I went along my not-so-merry way.
I hadn’t been hungry in days, so there was no reason for me to be shopping for food. But I’ve never been one for the more traditional forms of retail therapy (read: shoes) --- unless you count that time I thought I flunked my first year anthro mid-term --- so grocery shopping is as close to it as I come.
And on any other, normal, not heartbroken day, I love grocery shopping. Love, love, love it. I also love cooking and trying new recipes. When I don’t feel like absolute garbage, that is.
But there I was, not really needing anything, wandering aimlessly, trying to keep my mind off of the obvious. "Look, there’s a new kind of useless packaged crap,” I told myself. “Let me read the package. I’m sure it will be incredibly interesting…” the charade worked for about 3 seconds before I had to move on.
“What kind of ice cream do I want?” No response from within. “Um, hello!? You love ice cream!!” Still, nothing. “You love ice cream!” I reminded myself again.
Still, indifference.
“Cookies and cream or some other candy-infused, creamy concoction?”
I sighed. What does it matter?
I threw a quart of frozen crap into my basket and carried on. And it is at this point that I realized how, rather than cheering me up, my trip to the grocery store was making me more upset.
Then, another bomb hits me. As I continued to peruse the frozen foods, I realize I’m singing along to the sad music filtering through the store’s equally sad sound system.
Damn you, LeAnn Rimes. Damn you, Safeway.
“And tell me now: How do I live without you? I want to know.
How do I breathe without you? If you ever go,
How do I ever, ever survive?
How do I, how do I, oh how do I live?”
Again, I say it: Damn you, LeAnn Rimes. One more time: Damn you even more, Safeway!
Fresh foods for life my ass.
Is
It’s no secret that only the painfully single shop at 10 p.m. on Saturday nights. It’s obvious that every customer in the store is a shell of their former selves, lacking any desire to seek life out or just be happy. All of us are depressed enough as it is – does the spiteful store manager really have to rub it in?
Boo hoo country blues add insult to injury. It’s so unnecessary. Honestly, there are dozens of ways to torture myself, to wallow even further in my misery. I don’t need their help.
I can’t remember what song was played after Rimes’ sorrowful ballad, but it didn’t deviate far from its predecessor. Boo urns. At that point, I was bordering on suicidal. Lucky thing guns still aren’t yet considered “household goods,” in
Realizing the desperate scene, I proceeded to the check out and got the hell out of that place as fast as I could. And I vowed not to go back there in such a fragile state every again -- without the protection of my trusty, faithful, loving ipod, that is.
This all took place a few days ago. Now, marginally recovered, I have a message for grocers everywhere: If you want to sell more groceries, you first have to help me and my fellow heartbroken shoppers regain our appetites. When you’re depressed, food doesn’t taste like anything, so cheer us up and maybe we’ll actually want to eat something of substance for a change.
Sad food -- chocolate and ice cream -- are cheap. But happy, loving life food – fresh seafood, bright and colorful fruits and veggies, and the rest of the lot – isn’t so cheap. Yet if we feel good about ourselves, or about life in general, we’ll not only buy more, but we’ll indulge in quality products, like scallops and blueberries and goat cheese. So stop it with the el-depresso, lovesick loser tunes.
FYI: A suggested playlist --I’ve kept the country theme, just because punk or pop-rock would be too dramatic a change – and would be asking too much of you, now, wouldn’t it? -- might include the following:
Shania Twain – That Don’t Impress Me Much
Steve Holy – Brand New Girlfriend
The
Gretchen Wislon – Here for the Party
Carrie Underwood – Before He Cheats
Leslie Gore – You Don’t Own Me
… and, of course, my current theme song – another musical “up yours, I don’t need this shit” courtesy of the Dixie Chicks; the title track from their most recent release -- The Long Road.
--- end rant ---
Sunday
The Facebook Commandments
1. Thou shalt not add friends unless they are, in fact, your friends.
2. Thou shalt not use a grossly outdated profile picture, regardless of how good you looked back then.
3. Thou shalt not abandon your e-mail account and use facebook exclusively.
4. Thou shalt not have more applications than friends
5. Thou shalt not embellish your profile with not-quite-accurate descriptions/stories/statistics. You're not fooling anyone.
6. Thou's profile picture shalt not display you in a bikini. Unless you are a professional underwear model or prostitute, of course.
7. Thou shalt not include your home address in your profile, dumb ass.
8. Thou shalt not post pictures that make your friends look awful. That's bad e-karma.
9. Thou shalt not be surprised if your employer discovers your profile — or that you've been updating it at work. Don't be stupid; they're not.
10. Thou shalt not post every unfocussed, self-shot pic you took of the same people during your latest alcohol-infused adventure. One or two is more than enough.
2. Thou shalt not use a grossly outdated profile picture, regardless of how good you looked back then.
3. Thou shalt not abandon your e-mail account and use facebook exclusively.
4. Thou shalt not have more applications than friends
5. Thou shalt not embellish your profile with not-quite-accurate descriptions/stories/statistics. You're not fooling anyone.
6. Thou's profile picture shalt not display you in a bikini. Unless you are a professional underwear model or prostitute, of course.
7. Thou shalt not include your home address in your profile, dumb ass.
8. Thou shalt not post pictures that make your friends look awful. That's bad e-karma.
9. Thou shalt not be surprised if your employer discovers your profile — or that you've been updating it at work. Don't be stupid; they're not.
10. Thou shalt not post every unfocussed, self-shot pic you took of the same people during your latest alcohol-infused adventure. One or two is more than enough.
Thursday
Selling homes: image doesn't matter, apparently
Image matters in this day and age, whether we want to admit it or not.
Or so we've been told.
For most of us, our personal image is not all that crucial to our professional success, but for people like real estate agents — people who put their faces on signs in effort to attract business — you'd think they'd try a little harder than the rest of us schlubs. But no, they don't seem to.
As I casually trolled the local real estate market yesterday, I was astonished by the lack of professional-looking agents there were. So much for image being everything in this judgemental, materialistic society of ours.
If these people are still able to make a living while looking so foolish, I think the whole idea of self-presentation is a sham (and if that's the case, I'm changing back into my sweatpants, folks!)
Really, now. They can't be serious. I mean, would you buy a house from this guy?
.... he looks like a Latin dance instructor, soap opera villain, or professional hustler. Or maybe all three. He doesn't look like a respectable real estate agent.
And what about this woman?
... she's not even interested enough to make eye contact. Her portrait gives the impression that she's unmotivated and avoids confrontation; anything but outgoing. The lack of effort she's put into her hairstyle also doesn't help matters... aren't real estate agents supposed to exude professionalism, trust, and confidence? The poor woman is the opposite; she's more like the poster girl for a crisis help line.
Moving right along, there's this lady:
Is she a church lady, a school bus driver, or the chain smoking bingo-playing lady from down the street? I'm not sure, but either way, I would never buy a house from her. Or a low-cost condo, for that matter.
Lastly, we have this guy, who, despite his mismatched eyebrows, appears to be one of the more prominent agents in the area:
He seems to have photoshoped himself off of another other person who originally appeared next to him in the photo — a former partner? ex-wife? we'll never know — and it adds to the intrigue.
In the end, it (like image, apparently) doesn't matter. He's still smiling, despite whatever might lie in his salty past. And you know what? Good on 'em.
Now if you'll excuse me, my sweatpants are calling my name...
Or so we've been told.
For most of us, our personal image is not all that crucial to our professional success, but for people like real estate agents — people who put their faces on signs in effort to attract business — you'd think they'd try a little harder than the rest of us schlubs. But no, they don't seem to.
As I casually trolled the local real estate market yesterday, I was astonished by the lack of professional-looking agents there were. So much for image being everything in this judgemental, materialistic society of ours.
If these people are still able to make a living while looking so foolish, I think the whole idea of self-presentation is a sham (and if that's the case, I'm changing back into my sweatpants, folks!)
Really, now. They can't be serious. I mean, would you buy a house from this guy?
.... he looks like a Latin dance instructor, soap opera villain, or professional hustler. Or maybe all three. He doesn't look like a respectable real estate agent.
And what about this woman?
... she's not even interested enough to make eye contact. Her portrait gives the impression that she's unmotivated and avoids confrontation; anything but outgoing. The lack of effort she's put into her hairstyle also doesn't help matters... aren't real estate agents supposed to exude professionalism, trust, and confidence? The poor woman is the opposite; she's more like the poster girl for a crisis help line.
Moving right along, there's this lady:
Is she a church lady, a school bus driver, or the chain smoking bingo-playing lady from down the street? I'm not sure, but either way, I would never buy a house from her. Or a low-cost condo, for that matter.
Lastly, we have this guy, who, despite his mismatched eyebrows, appears to be one of the more prominent agents in the area:
He seems to have photoshoped himself off of another other person who originally appeared next to him in the photo — a former partner? ex-wife? we'll never know — and it adds to the intrigue.
In the end, it (like image, apparently) doesn't matter. He's still smiling, despite whatever might lie in his salty past. And you know what? Good on 'em.
Now if you'll excuse me, my sweatpants are calling my name...
Sunday
To those who deserve it, happy Mother's Day
It's Mother's Day, a day for us to honour the women who gave us life
and thank them for all they've done.
As much as I appreciate my mom, I won't be rushing out to buy her a
sappy card or a bouquet of overpriced flowers this Sunday. It's not
the commercialism of the holiday that deters me - I just don't think
cards or flowers do the woman justice.
And that $35 brunch won't cut it, either - if I took her to one of
those things, she'd probably lecture me about spending money
foolishly. (After all, she can make delicate eggs benedict, bake
scrumptious scones, and whip up waffles like nobody's business - and
hers taste better than the restaurant's, of course.)
For me, Mother's Day is a special day to look back and acknowledge
all that my mom has done for me - and what I put her through as a
teenager, as well. The exercise reminds me why mothers get a day to
themselves: they really deserve it.
Older and slightly wiser, I can now look back and see what a pain in
the ass I was as a child. It gives me a renewed sense of respect for
mothers like mine who do their jobs so well.
To be a true parent is a terribly unpopular job. Befriending
teenaged offspring and being "the cool mom" is a much easier and
tempting option - but my mom never took the bait.
And in the end, I'm glad I had that I the mom I did instead of
someone like Stiffler's famous party-hardy mom. (But just for the
record, mom, all of my guy friends used to tell me how "hot" you were
- some of them still do - so I guess you must share some attributes
with the renowned M.I.L.F.)
So mom, this Mother's Day, I want to say thank you. Again. In case
you forgot since the last time I told you, I am sincerely grateful for
all you've done for me over the years.
Not that I've always been particularly appreciative.
I still remember how mad I was when you refused to extend my curfew
past 12:30 a.m. I was always the first one to leave the party, but in
retrospect, you did the right thing. Sure, the early cut-off had me
resenting you for the majority of my high school years, but you were
right: not much good ever happens after midnight.
And thanks for taking the time to follow-up with my friends' parents
to make sure my alibis always checked out, too. Granted, they usually
did - but only because I knew you'd find out if I fibbed. It kept me
fuming, but honest.
When I acted like an irresponsible child, you somehow managed to
treat me like an adult. You were usually far more rational than I was,
though at the time I was convinced of the opposite.
Being my mother was anything but easy. I was a grumpy, self-absorbed
and rude teenager. Anyone who lived under the same roof as my
adolescent self deserves a medal - but you rarely let my unpredictable
mood swings stop you from anything. Through it all, you demonstrated
the truth that is behind the philosophy, "a mother's love is
unconditional." Though I don't know how you did it, you never lost
faith in me. Thanks, ma.
I used to think you just didn't get me, but now I realize you always
got me, totally and completely. That's why I couldn't stand you - 90%
of the time, you knew what I was thinking and were able to stop my
trouble-making before I had a chance to get started. You busted me for
things I didn't even do, which I still find incredibly impressive. Way
to nip those problems in the bud.
You were never afraid to be the bad guy, to put your foot down, or to
teach me a hard lesson. Having such a strong mother was terribly
frustrating at times, but it also was exactly what I needed. I think
the world could use more moms like you.
Despite all of our blow-outs, my mother is now one of my closest
friends. She is an incredible source of support that is always there
for me. My mom's my rock, and always has been. It just took me a while
to realize it.
Thanks for everything, mom. Happy Mother's Day.
and thank them for all they've done.
As much as I appreciate my mom, I won't be rushing out to buy her a
sappy card or a bouquet of overpriced flowers this Sunday. It's not
the commercialism of the holiday that deters me - I just don't think
cards or flowers do the woman justice.
And that $35 brunch won't cut it, either - if I took her to one of
those things, she'd probably lecture me about spending money
foolishly. (After all, she can make delicate eggs benedict, bake
scrumptious scones, and whip up waffles like nobody's business - and
hers taste better than the restaurant's, of course.)
For me, Mother's Day is a special day to look back and acknowledge
all that my mom has done for me - and what I put her through as a
teenager, as well. The exercise reminds me why mothers get a day to
themselves: they really deserve it.
Older and slightly wiser, I can now look back and see what a pain in
the ass I was as a child. It gives me a renewed sense of respect for
mothers like mine who do their jobs so well.
To be a true parent is a terribly unpopular job. Befriending
teenaged offspring and being "the cool mom" is a much easier and
tempting option - but my mom never took the bait.
And in the end, I'm glad I had that I the mom I did instead of
someone like Stiffler's famous party-hardy mom. (But just for the
record, mom, all of my guy friends used to tell me how "hot" you were
- some of them still do - so I guess you must share some attributes
with the renowned M.I.L.F.)
So mom, this Mother's Day, I want to say thank you. Again. In case
you forgot since the last time I told you, I am sincerely grateful for
all you've done for me over the years.
Not that I've always been particularly appreciative.
I still remember how mad I was when you refused to extend my curfew
past 12:30 a.m. I was always the first one to leave the party, but in
retrospect, you did the right thing. Sure, the early cut-off had me
resenting you for the majority of my high school years, but you were
right: not much good ever happens after midnight.
And thanks for taking the time to follow-up with my friends' parents
to make sure my alibis always checked out, too. Granted, they usually
did - but only because I knew you'd find out if I fibbed. It kept me
fuming, but honest.
When I acted like an irresponsible child, you somehow managed to
treat me like an adult. You were usually far more rational than I was,
though at the time I was convinced of the opposite.
Being my mother was anything but easy. I was a grumpy, self-absorbed
and rude teenager. Anyone who lived under the same roof as my
adolescent self deserves a medal - but you rarely let my unpredictable
mood swings stop you from anything. Through it all, you demonstrated
the truth that is behind the philosophy, "a mother's love is
unconditional." Though I don't know how you did it, you never lost
faith in me. Thanks, ma.
I used to think you just didn't get me, but now I realize you always
got me, totally and completely. That's why I couldn't stand you - 90%
of the time, you knew what I was thinking and were able to stop my
trouble-making before I had a chance to get started. You busted me for
things I didn't even do, which I still find incredibly impressive. Way
to nip those problems in the bud.
You were never afraid to be the bad guy, to put your foot down, or to
teach me a hard lesson. Having such a strong mother was terribly
frustrating at times, but it also was exactly what I needed. I think
the world could use more moms like you.
Despite all of our blow-outs, my mother is now one of my closest
friends. She is an incredible source of support that is always there
for me. My mom's my rock, and always has been. It just took me a while
to realize it.
Thanks for everything, mom. Happy Mother's Day.
Saturday
Man, I wish I could get fired like these guys...
There's not much to encourage high-ranking managers and CEOs to work hard these days. Really, it's enough to make me want to give up journalism and become a failed executive...
The Man gets paid very well for his work. And when a big dog gets the boot or just chooses to abandon his post, the will still cash-in.
Some examples: Hydro One paid its outgoing CEO $3-million; the former boss of OC Transpo, Alain Carle, received about $130,000 after being fired after just six months on the job; when Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corporation chief executive, Duncan Brown, stepped-down in March, he pocketed nearly three-quarters of a million dollars on his way out the door. And the list goes on.
My question: will someone pay me $720,000 to get lost? How 'bout if I volunteer to disappear?
(It's tough to be hard on Greg Geddes, who worked for the city for 23 years and was fired last month during a shake-up at city hall. The job he had for the past three years was deemed no longer needed, so he was given to golden heave-ho to the tune of $270,000. But still... )
The Man gets paid very well for his work. And when a big dog gets the boot or just chooses to abandon his post, the will still cash-in.
Some examples: Hydro One paid its outgoing CEO $3-million; the former boss of OC Transpo, Alain Carle, received about $130,000 after being fired after just six months on the job; when Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corporation chief executive, Duncan Brown, stepped-down in March, he pocketed nearly three-quarters of a million dollars on his way out the door. And the list goes on.
My question: will someone pay me $720,000 to get lost? How 'bout if I volunteer to disappear?
(It's tough to be hard on Greg Geddes, who worked for the city for 23 years and was fired last month during a shake-up at city hall. The job he had for the past three years was deemed no longer needed, so he was given to golden heave-ho to the tune of $270,000. But still... )
Clash of the tree-hugging titans
The environment is a mess, we all know that. (Some are still in denial, sure, but deep down they've got to have an ounce of smarts somewhere.)
Yet today's question is not who is right or who is wrong. It is not which party has the best environmental record, or whose carbon footprint is bigger than whose.
What I want to know is this:
Who would win the battle for environmental supremacy, if it was fought in a WWE freestyle match: John Baird or Al Gore?
I can see it now:
"Ladies and Gentlemen! In this corner, wearing the blue shorts, standing 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighing in at 190 pounds, all the way from the wilds of Nepean, John "the hammer" Baird! ... And in the other corner, also wearing blue shorts, standing 6 feet 1 inch tall and weighing in at 205 pounds, the man who conveniently brought us the inconvenient truth, Al Gore!"
"Now... Let's get it on!" *DING DING!*
Naturally, David Suzuki (wearing green shorts woven from all-natural fibres, standing 5 feet 4 inches tall and weighing in at 145 pounds) would take on the winner of the first match. My prediction: if he takes on Baird, he'd pull out some crazy judo moves and surprise us all (make sure to put down a few dollars on that match-up; I'm sure the odds would pay handsomely). But if Gore won round 1, he and Suzuki wouldn't settle their battle royale in the ring. They'd be more likely to decide the winner through a tree hug-off...
A brief background:
Just days after John Baird announced the Tories' plan to cut greenhouse gas emissions, former U.S. vice-president Al Gore dismissed it as "a complete and total fraud." Environment Minister Baird countered, saying, " It is difficult to accept criticism from someone who preaches about climate change, but who never submitted the Kyoto Protocol to a vote in the United States Senate, who never did as much as Canada is now doing to fight climate change during eight years in office..."
Mr. Baird seemed to forget his government has done sweet F-A to help the environment, despite being more than a year into its 4-year term — and that it was his party's nemesis, now-Liberal leader Stéphane Dion (who was the Liberal 's Minister of Environment at the time) who pushed to commit Canada to Kyoto. Mr. Baird also failed to recall how the day before, he called for the nation to pull-out of the agreement and not look back. (such minor details, yes, I know... how silly of me to dwell on them — sorry, folks.)
Environmentalist and former Nature of Things host David Suzuki also pooh-poohed Mr. Baird's "plan" — which, in case you're wondering, is a watered down environmental strategy that would see Canada abandon its Kyoto Accord commitments. It calls for air pollution to be cut in half by 2015, and for greenhouse gases to be reduced to levels five per cent above 1990 levels over the next 13 years. Yawn. Or should I say, wheeze and hack...
Somehow, PM Harper managed to keep a straight face while defending his party's, as he put it, "tough" new plan.
Yet today's question is not who is right or who is wrong. It is not which party has the best environmental record, or whose carbon footprint is bigger than whose.
What I want to know is this:
Who would win the battle for environmental supremacy, if it was fought in a WWE freestyle match: John Baird or Al Gore?
I can see it now:
"Ladies and Gentlemen! In this corner, wearing the blue shorts, standing 5 feet 10 inches tall and weighing in at 190 pounds, all the way from the wilds of Nepean, John "the hammer" Baird! ... And in the other corner, also wearing blue shorts, standing 6 feet 1 inch tall and weighing in at 205 pounds, the man who conveniently brought us the inconvenient truth, Al Gore!"
"Now... Let's get it on!" *DING DING!*
Naturally, David Suzuki (wearing green shorts woven from all-natural fibres, standing 5 feet 4 inches tall and weighing in at 145 pounds) would take on the winner of the first match. My prediction: if he takes on Baird, he'd pull out some crazy judo moves and surprise us all (make sure to put down a few dollars on that match-up; I'm sure the odds would pay handsomely). But if Gore won round 1, he and Suzuki wouldn't settle their battle royale in the ring. They'd be more likely to decide the winner through a tree hug-off...
A brief background:
Just days after John Baird announced the Tories' plan to cut greenhouse gas emissions, former U.S. vice-president Al Gore dismissed it as "a complete and total fraud." Environment Minister Baird countered, saying, " It is difficult to accept criticism from someone who preaches about climate change, but who never submitted the Kyoto Protocol to a vote in the United States Senate, who never did as much as Canada is now doing to fight climate change during eight years in office..."
Mr. Baird seemed to forget his government has done sweet F-A to help the environment, despite being more than a year into its 4-year term — and that it was his party's nemesis, now-Liberal leader Stéphane Dion (who was the Liberal 's Minister of Environment at the time) who pushed to commit Canada to Kyoto. Mr. Baird also failed to recall how the day before, he called for the nation to pull-out of the agreement and not look back. (such minor details, yes, I know... how silly of me to dwell on them — sorry, folks.)
Environmentalist and former Nature of Things host David Suzuki also pooh-poohed Mr. Baird's "plan" — which, in case you're wondering, is a watered down environmental strategy that would see Canada abandon its Kyoto Accord commitments. It calls for air pollution to be cut in half by 2015, and for greenhouse gases to be reduced to levels five per cent above 1990 levels over the next 13 years. Yawn. Or should I say, wheeze and hack...
Somehow, PM Harper managed to keep a straight face while defending his party's, as he put it, "tough" new plan.
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