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Category Archives: Easily Annoyed?

Facebook-The Beast

Facebook-The Beast

Isn’t it amazing how we throw the word “friend” around now that we have this bizarre creature named Facebook?  Ten years ago if I had said we were “friends”  some of you would have been appalled that I dare call myself your friend. But in this technologically advanced, socially declining age, we are all friends.

I have a love/hate relationship with Facebook; not like the one that I have with the musical Cats. With Cats, I get really excited every time I hear that it’s being performed in St. Louis and I get my double disc album out and prance around my living room while pretending to be the Rum Tum Tuggress (female Tugger of course) and singing and dancing. And then I go to the show and “Memory” starts and I’m like, “Dang it. I HATE this show!” Every time. It’s as if when it comes to Cats I have a short-term memory. I call this my Cats Conundrum.

But my love/hate for Facebook goes deeper.  I love that I am in contact with my childhood friends from Pennsylvania, or that I can look at pictures of my Centralia High School classmates’ kids. Or that I can read about the funny things that happen to you during the day.  My favorites are the snarky status updates from my most clever friends. These things I enjoy.

Facebook allows us to be social without being social. I can sit here and have a conversation with you while I’m in my underwear. I don’t  (usually). But I could. And you would never know.  It allows us to be “friends” with people that we may have been in a geometry class with but never actually spoke to. It allows us to catch up with people without actually having to interact with them. It’s like being a legal non-invasive stalker.

I can see pictures of your vacation without you having to tell me about the neat way that the Disney staff left the towels on your bed, or to have to hear about how low you could go with your limbo. Because as fascinating as these experiences were to you, I’d just rather see the pictures without hearing you tell about how neat it was that the chocolate waffles on the buffet were shaped like spades, diamonds, hearts and clubs.

Facebook allows me to be a voyeur in the privacy of my own home and without feeling dirty about it.

But it’s also a double-edged sword, because for everything I love to hear about on Facebook, there are ten things I don’t want to hear about, or think are ridiculous or find as boring as dryer lint. Here is my not-all-inclusive list of things I dislike or am bored with on Facebook:

  • People who say things that aren’t appropriate. I think the first rule of Facebook is that you should pretend that we (your “friends”) are all at a dinner party together. If you haven’t seen them in seventeen years I’m pretty sure they don’t want to hear about where you pooped.
  • I feel pressured to say “Happy Birthday” to everyone that was ever born. I feel like if I don’t say it, then you will think I don’t care. Yay! You managed to NOT DIE for another year! Way to go! Have some cake!
  • When someone uses their wall to get sympathy.
  • When someone has a loved one pass away and they say “Heaven got another angel today” Really? You really think it works that way? You really believe that God needed your Great Aunt Mamie, who let’s face it, wasn’t all that pleasant to be around while she was down here? You think that’s who He chose to be an angel?
  • When people have an anniversary they say “11 years ago today I married my best friend, Lover( please don’t take me into your bedroom) and the man/woman I want to spend the rest of my life with” When what they should really say is “11 years ago today I settled for my husband/wife and while some of the time he/she is a pain in the butt, overall, I do not regret my actions and I feel that we will make great companions when the sex is gone.”
  • When people say about their kids’ birthday: “6 years ago today, I met the most amazing little person who changed my life! Happy birthday Jr!” when they should really say “6 years ago today I was in a hospital spread eagle trying to eject a living breathing, peeing, pooping basketball out of my body. It took 15 straight hours and my husband was in the waiting room watching the World Series and for that I will always be passive aggressively angry with him. Happy Birthday Jr!”
  • When people complain about it being Monday or not Friday or wish me a “Happy Hump Day” Saying “Happy Hump Day” is the verbal equivalent of giving someone a black “Over the Hill” cane with a side mirror on it; it was never funny.
  • When people complain about the obvious: heat, snow, rain. This is as deep as your river runs?
  • When people put entire conversations that they had with their kids that they think are unique. Some are really funny and I appreciate them.  But guess what? Every little kid calls animals “aminals” and spaghetti “pasghetti”   Originality is what is funny.
  • When people rant about politics on there but then if you disagree with them they either defriend you or get nasty with you. I’m sorry…when did we lose that whole free speech thing?
  • When people who are my age and I haven’t seen since high school still act like they did when I knew them. And still make references to the music of that day-and not because they’re remembering but because they’re stuck in that time.  Also, we are in our late thirties, it’s no longer cool to be  proud of how drunk you were last night.
  • People who try to guilt me into re-posting something to show support for something. Seriously, if you want to show support, throw some money towards the cause instead of posting something that only your FRIENDS can see.
  • People who use Facebook to attack former boyfriends/girlfriends. We are not in junior high anymore. Please take up your issues with your ex, not with the Facebook community.

Facebook has changed our culture irreversibly.  It allows us to re-connect and keep in touch with friends that we might not have been able to find. For me, it is fodder for some of my funnier thoughts. But I think in reality, Facebook needs a catchy phrase, maybe some truth in advertising. So I suggest this:

“Facebook: By the time you realize you know an idiot, it’s too late. You’re in too deep to get out without hurting someone’s feelings.”

Of course, if you’re reading this and you’re a friend of mine on Facebook, I’m obviously not talking about you…

 
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Posted by on September 21, 2011 in Easily Annoyed?, Random

 

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Clean That Up!

Clean That Up!

I can’t complain about any of the places I’ve worked over the years. Except for a few jobs that I resigned from (Read: Went to work for three days and on the fourth sat in my car in a remote parking lot and bawled my eyes out, sobbing on the phone to my best friend that “I can’t do this!” while inhaling white chocolate macadamia nut cookies) I have been blessed enough to have commendable employers, adequate paychecks and when applicable, KILLER commissions (although it was not coincidental that I rocked my quotas every month so I earned every cent.) If I had to lodge a complaint about any (or all) of my former places of employment, my grievance would always remain the same, the break room microwave.

No matter where I’ve worked or who I’ve worked for, the break room microwave has been the most foul aspect of every workplace.

If you’re reading this at work, please take a second to look around you. These seemingly normal, seemingly CLEAN people who you work with, joke with and maybe even socialize with ARE SLOBS.  Yes, lurking among your co-workers is a slovenly pig.  And by the probable look of the microwave, you are among a whole herd.

I am the leftover queen.  And on days when I don’t have leftovers, you can bet your sweet bippy that I have surreptitiously hidden my Banquet chicken pot pie behind that grouping of frost-laden Hot Pockets that have been in the freezer for six months.  No one knows who the Hot Pockets belong to so they never get thrown out when someone finally has the gumption to clean the refrigerator.

Every day, at every job I have ever had, after exactly four hours of work (because I am nothing if not a by-the-book kind of gal. I take my breaks at the appointed time.) I clock out for my lunch hour, which is actually just thirty minutes long. And thank God for that, because after forty minutes of watching daytime tv, I want to take my plastic spork and poke myself in the eye. But with my luck one of the tines would break off and I’d have to be taken to the emergency room, thereby making my day even longer.

After four hours of usually mindless albeit time-sucking work, I am famished.  I go to the communal fridge and pull out my Wal-Mart bag of goodies. While the entrée varies, the extras never change: A soda and a Little Debbie snack cake. (Never mind that in a one year time frame I gained thirty-seven pounds by devouring two to three giant Little Debbie treats a day.)  Today’s entrée: leftover home-made spaghetti laced with tons of garlic.  As I uncover the condensation covered Tupperware, the smell engulfs the room.  One can never be too generous with the garlic.  My mouth starts to water as I imagine the party my taste buds will attend in one and a half minutes, knowing that the garlic has had time to marinate the whole batch and saturate each and every slippery noodle.

But first: Re-heat.

I carry my beloved spaghetti (home-made sauce, by the way) to the microwave and pop open the door.

And I recoil in disgust.

The inner box of the microwave, the one that will soon nurture my spaghetti back to its former piping hot glory, is covered in everyone else’s culinary spatterings. First I lay eyes upon Joe’s leftover crusty white sauce from last week.  Next my eyes dance over to the butter stains from the popcorn that Sonja popped three months ago.  The glass turntable is completely covered in a multi-colored greasy film of brown gravy, white gravy, red sauce, white sauce, one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish sauce.

Every color of the rainbow as well as every food group is well-represented in the cookspace of the break room microwave that I apparently share with a group of people who, while appearing amazingly functional at their jobs, are apparently living in wretched squalor based on the condition of this oven. And the stains and smutch are not just from today.   Some of this gunk has been there for weeks, if not months.

So why, you ask, is this the first time that I’ve noticed the condition of the microwave?  It’s not.  But today is the first time that the problem has gone 3D on me.  Roosting in the middle of the circular glass plate that gives me assurance that I will not have ice-cold noodles beneath tongue-scorching, day-ruining sauce because it will cook everything evenly, is a new sight. A nasty sight.

There, in the middle of the plate is a white-ish, still liquid enough that I can tell what it is but old enough that it has congealed a bit, splash of New England Clam Chowder.  The piece de resistance of this gathering of abandoned food?  One perfectly square potato cube sitting beside a lone commercially fished, miniscule rubbery clam floating atop a thick white broth.

I can’t win.  Normally I overlook the collection of crusty and clumpy food bits.  I turn a blind eye to the microwave ceiling splatterings of Chef Boyardee.  But today I cannot ignore it because the mess has taken up residence in the middle of the rotating glass.  Smack dab in the middle of where I would normally put my loaded-with-goodies Tupperware, there sits a mushy cube of potato accompanied with a sad-looking unhappy clam.  Unavoidable.

A sudden rush of anger wells up from deep within my hungry soul.  I work with pigs.  That guy I share my Pixie Stix with every day?  Is that his mozzarella dangling from the front door?  That girl who always talks to me about the latest episode of the Office?  Yeah, that’s her crusted ramen pelted all over every wall of the cooking space.

I dwell in my anger just long enough to blame everyone who has ever worked here for the mess that is lingering in the oven.  My thoughts are suddenly peppered with horrible, horrible ways to retaliate.  I come to my senses, remembering that I only have thirty minutes and just spent the last four minutes steeping myself in angry juice.  I must take action.

I grab the nearest roll of paper towels, wet them in the sink and start scrubbing, pieces of cold clam chowder sloshing around everywhere  as I scour every inch of the cook box. I even wipe down the ceiling because I know that when heated, whatever food particles that are desperately clinging to it will become pliable and fall into my bowl. And I am not about to eat someone else’s exploded Beefaroni that plummets the short distance and mixes with my sustenance.

I would like to tell you that I totally spring-cleaned the oven but I would be lying.  I would also love to tell you that it was due to a time constraint that I didn’t clean it well but again, I would be lying.  I didn’t clean it well as an act of pure defiance.

I get the microwave just clean enough to make sure I don’t get some kind of gut-wrenching food poisoning. I punch one minute and thirty on the keypad and wait while my goodies turns a slow circle inside the oven.  I can hear the sauce begin to pop and sizzle.  I can trace the faint, but-ever-strengthening smell of garlic overload seeping out.  Finally it beeps and I open the door to see that my spaghetti has exploded all over the inside of the microwave, leaving me with a few dry, crusty, sauce-covered noodles to sustain me for the rest of the afternoon.

I would love to tell you that I cleaned up my own mess…..

 

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