I think everyone can relate to the concept of false advertising…and I’m not just talking about being sold a useless piece of crap that has been heralded as the next best thing. I’m talking about people who worm their way into our lives–or worse yet, the lives of our friends to which we are subjected to idly watching–who turn out to be the exact opposite of what they claim.
Violet the Bohemian used to tell me that when a person shows you who they are, believe them. Years later she admitted she gleaned this wisdom from Dr. Phil, but whatever…it’s true. I got that. What I don’t get, and what I think we’re all struggling with, is finding genuine people to surround ourselves with–whether they are friends or potential luvahs or your friend’s potential luvahs. If someone says they want to be in your life, one certainly does not expect to get shirked like unwanted responsibility.
Someone please help me understand. Why don’t people mean what they say? What kind of defense system should a person develop to ward off these offenders? No one wants to be jaded, but at a certain point we do have to learn from our mistakes. I guess the trick is finding the balance between being cautious and expecting catastrophe at every turn.
Lately whenever I’m doing something remotely interesting, or even highly boring, I try to remember every detail so I can report about it on this here diary. I have loads of ideas, but never enough time to write about all of them—if I was more organized I’d keep a list of them handy. (Still to come are posts on how to handle the Miss Forward-a-Lot in your life, pictures of the flat, and a new how-to.)
Yesterday was a day all about connecting with old friends. I was online and at one point I had seven chat windows open. I chatted with Sashley, my old roomie, and Mikey B, a friend from high school. I wondered what would be considered newsworthy. For example, I told Sashley about our other roomie who I recently eloped. I decided she didn’t need to know the nitty gritty about redoing my floors. She told me about work and her broken heart that’s still mending. She left out the details about her trip to Las Vegas.
When I talked to Mikey B I caught him up on The Pink Fairy’s new blog. I told him about Notorious M.A.G.’s deal with her husband to get a cat and name it Bjork. I reminded him that I’ll always be Ms. Friday, whether or not I ever marry. He informed me that he is still so ADD that he can’t keep up his own blog—much less anyone else’s—or go on a lunch break that is shorter than three hours. He admitted that he liked to post pictures and when I asked him where he said, “The internet.” Hmm…yeah. I was hoping he’d narrow it down for me since there are lots of tubes and wires that connect this giant web-like system.
Despite Mikey B’s inability to focus or remember things, he checked my little ol’ diary this morning to see if in deed our conversation made the front page. To his chagrin he found nothing but yesterday’s Visual DNA thingie. Something else he hasn’t mastered? Patience.
After watching way too many cycles of America’s Next Top Model, I have finally gotten the BF to cross over to the Dark Side. The BF finally found his inner Cha Cha Diva and has been cracking me and everyone I know up with his shtick.
It all started just a few short weeks ago when I was having another massive craving for Lays potato chips. (My cravings began when I interviewed to work as a manager during the graveyard shift at a Lays factory. I didn’t get the job, but since I’m the universe’s bitch sometimes, I can’t seem to go a month without diving into a bag head first.) Anyway, so I was having another couch potato night and I was hoping the BF would join me instead of being productive. He must have read my mind. He turned to me and said, “Do you want to eat a whole bag of potato chips while we watch Top Model? It will be like we’re mocking them.”
After I sufficiently recovered from my laughing induced asthma attack, I sent the BF packing to the store. He bought said bag of chips and we made dip to accompany it. I stuffed myself, we laughed at the stupid things Renee said, and I rooted for Jael. (Yes Lucky 10-Key, I know your position on her, but I like her anyway!) It was good times. For the whole week the BF basked in the glow of his clever joke. I told everyone I knew and it never stopped being funny.
The following Wednesday we went to a retirement party for the BF and Weltsie’s coworker. They served some wicked awesome cake. Generally I find bakery cakes gross, but this cake was delicious and possibly made of an illicit substance. I took home an embarrassingly large chunk of cake home with me. Naturally, the BF suggested we attempt to consume the slab in one sitting for part deux of model-mocking. Of course hilarity ensued!
I guess I figured the line of jokes would stop there. But this week he took it a step further…
Before heading home for the day the BF dropped by his coworker’s office. With a deadpan face he asked Jim if he was going to watch Top Model. Now, you must understand that the BF is a shy techie who works with a bunch of scientists who like to play hacky sack and wear Tevas. So Jim admitted he didn’t know what Top Model was or even what channel it was on. The BF explained the basic premise and that it’s on the CW, the network formerly known as the WB. Like a true scientist his response was, “So it’s like they switched the order of the letters and increased it by one unit.”
Um, yeah…something like that.