Have a Nice Day

A cheesy Bon Jovi lyric to some, a staple American phrase to others, but ah…sometimes it's really nice to hear!

This weekend as the sun radiated warmth for the first time in months, I took my bike out on the local trail. No sooner had I started pedaling when I was bombarded by a steady stream of “Hi,” “How are ya?” and “have a nice day!” from the multitude of sun seekers who had crawled out of the woodwork.

Even the disgruntled teenage youths slouching down the path with hoodies and streams of cigarette smoke trailing behind them waved as I raced by…as did small children, already trained in the art of polite greetings. Time and time again I found that I had to turn back and shout “uh…oh…yeah…you too!” all too late, surprised and impressed at the unexpected friendliness that I’d missed in ten years of living abroad in a country where the best I hoped for was a cluck of the tongue and a scowl from other pedestrians.

And even though I was born and raised in the U.S., coming back after all these years, I still can’t get used to it…the friendliness. I remember staring in dumb confusion as a check out girl at the supermarket said “Hi, would you like paper, plastic or both?” in a chipper sing-song voice, or feeling slight shock at the waitress at Applebee’s who bellowed “Hi, my name is Wendy, and I’ll be your server today! Can I start you folks off with some drinks or appetizers?” or the unfounded suspicion that slides over me when people strike up convos in the elevator at work or tell me to have a good one as they step out onto their floor. What a difference from Spain, where, even in the most uppercrust of restaurants, it wouldn’t be shocking to merely get a bored “dime” (tell me) as a salutation, and where I was never greeted by any passerby, anywhere, except in annoyance.

“Yes, Americans say have a nice day, but it’s fake…superficial,” several Spanish friends said when they defended my comparison of New Yorkers to Barcelonians. And maybe that’s true. One had to work hard to break the ice in Barcelona, especially as a guiri (derogatory term for foreigner). In shops, I found I had to be aggressive and sometimes rude to get any respect, or speak Catalan instead of Spanish (instant bonus points from those shopkeepers who got a kick out of foreigners learning their language and not just Spanish!). But once that ice was broken, people tended to open up and really let you in. We in the U.S. may say have a nice day to anyone who will listen, but do we mean it?

I like to think that it doesn’t matter. When someone says it to me, it forces me to smile and say it back, and I get an instant “high” that lasts for a few minutes or sometimes longer. Does it matter if it’s superficial or fake if we start someone’s day off right? Make them feel important for a second? And my personal favorite—get someone to smile?

As I passed a family sitting by a pond on the bike trail, I suddenly heard a deafening chirping all around. The father, decked out in knee high baseball socks looked up and said: “I think it’s attack of the frogs!” followed by a dorky laugh. My first reaction was to make a face and say “Herdeeherrr” under my breath (thanks for that trait, Dad). But instead I let myself get drunk off the good vibe. “Yeah!” I said, smiling. “Crazy! Who knew there were so many frogs this season!” And even on the way home, when I met the same guy at the same pond, and he repeated verbatim his earlier comment about the frogfest, I smiled in acknowledgement and said “Yes, wild! Those crazy frogs! Have a great day!”

Chop You, Scott Conant!

Is anyone else getting tired of the “mean” judges on reality TV? Alright, I know, it’s reality TV, in and of itself a tiring but unfortunately inescapable part of life. Deconstructing all of its evils would be as useful as undertaking a literary criticism of Dan Brown or Ken Follet. Like anything the first time around, Simon Cowell’s brash, rude and painfully honest critiques on shows like American Idol used to be funny. Back in 2002. After all, people are morbidly fascinated with other people getting put down on national television—why else would Jerry Springer have become famous in the 90s?

Even over in Spain, where I lived for a decade, they have a version of Cowell on Operacion Triunfo, a sort of “Spanish Idol”. His name is Risto Mejide, called “Risto” as if Madonna or Cher. Always decked out in a leather jacket and big, designer, lightly tinted shades, his fights with the host and his tantrums on set are so pathetically planned and scripted that it's embarrassing to watch. He once told this poor, sweet, young (and pretty) girl that she had the most boring face he had ever seen. Is that really necessary? Simon Cowell is often funny because he hits the nail on the head with why a person's singing sucks…Risto is just a dick. Anyway I digress…back to America.

As we know, nowadays even quirky, random YouTube videos are eventually brought to the mainstream and beaten like a dead horse until there is nothing new or refreshing about anything, and Cowell, as with anything else, has become a product meant to be replicated…a string of pathetic, wannabe “bad ass” judges have followed in his wake. Enter Scott Conant.

Admittedly I only watched a recent episode of The Food Network’s Chopped for one reason: one of the chefs, Hannah Hopkins, is from Dish, my favorite local restaurant—a slice of funky Brooklyn in my one horse town. Everything from the mouth watering menu to the ever-changing local art adorning the walls, the dark mood lighting and the half price wine Wednesdays make Dish a divine dining pleasure. So when I read that Hannah would be on Chopped, I looked forward to her winning with ease.

The show, hosted by an apologetic Ted Allen, challenges four chefs (in this case Hannah, two cocky American men and one older French chef) to make a starter, main dish and dessert using a basket of random ingredients (a chicken liver, raspberries and asparagus, for example). With each round, the judges pick apart the dish, pointing out merits and mistakes, and remarking on how creative it is before axing one of the contestants. During round two on this particular episode, the chefs were charged with making a pasta dish with mackerel. This is where Scott Conant really became the raging a-hole he is. The chefs, racing against the clock to create the dish, all committed the deadly sin of undercooking their pasta.

Conant immediately began twitching in annoyance, as if having some kind of epileptic fit or allergic reaction. “Is this a joke?” he barked several times, muttering about how it “pissed him off.” He proceeded to humiliate and yell at the chefs, who stood with hanging heads and flushed faces as if in the principal’s office at school. When Chef Hannah was "chopped" in the second round, she left the show teary and defeated. My question is, why is this necessary? Are these chefs in boot camp with the U.S. Marines? Do the judges have a right to rip contestants to shreds and make them feel like complete shit just to feed their own bloated egos? As I angrily Googled Scott Conant later, I saw blogs and news feeds alike dedicated to his “cantankerous” rants. One was because a chef decided to include raw onions in his salad, something Conant apparently hates (the chefs not only have to throw together a meal with bizarre ingredients in limited time, but also have to read his mind as to his likes and dislikes). Another was because a chef had dared to serve string cheese and celery whole.

All I have to say is what a fah-reiking Divo. Anyway, I know today’s blog post is a personal one…not many of my (five) readers will have been to Dish or care about Conant’s treatment of one of my favorite chefs. But I'm sure you can commiserate on these cookie cutter judges that really need to get a hold of their rampant self-importance—or any such ego maniac (a few of my university professors were just as bad!). There is a difference between knowing your stuff and giving constructive criticism to push people and make them be better at what they do—and just being an annoying, bitchy, fartbag.

P.S. Despite my hatred for him, I plan to go to Scott Conant's restaurant on West 14th street, Scarpetta, to see if all of his hauteur is warranted and to make sure his pasta is fully cooked. If it is as good as the reviews say, maybe I’ll forgive him and become a flagrant hypocrite by raving about him in my next post.

Shiny Happy Blogger

It’s come to my attention from a “fan” or two whose names shall remain anonymous that I am, at times, an “angry blogger.” My first reaction to this was: “WTF Mofo!” I mean, angry, moi? No, no, no, no. Admittedly, I'm occasionally impatient, once in a blue moon irritated, and, rarely, antisocial, but most people who know me would say I’m almost always friendly, fun and kindhearted. Besides, it’s not my fault that people suck.

So this blog is going to be a happy blog. Yay! After all, what’s there not to be happy about? The sun is shining and it’s broken 50 degrees two days running! Yay! Two articles I've recently read suggest that red wine makes women gain less weight and might aid in digestion.** Perfect! Mamma needs a bottle o' wine! I’ve been in such a good mood, in fact, that last night on my train ride home, I did not awaken the chubby, sweaty, bald, snoring man who decided to lay on my shoulder for an hour and fifteen minutes, lifting his dome only to cough in my ear or as backlash from an extra violent snort. Anything for a fellow commuter! Nor did I scoff at the screaming babe whose wails pierced my ears as I commuted in this morning (I do believe, after all, that the children are our future).

And there are other reasons the glass is half full! The Olympics are finally over, I no longer have to pretend to be interested when people talk about them, no more ‘O Canada’, and my couch potatoism and crappy nighttime television programs can resume their rightful place in my life. The office tid-bitter is keeping his distance (for now). And, in possibly the best news of the week, my favorite actress, Sandra Bullock, who is so deep and multilayered, finally got the recognition she deserves at the Oscars this year! Whoohoo Sandy! Now if only James Cameron would be recognized for his killer dialogue...all would be well with the universe!

So…hmm…how bout them Mets? Look here--it’s just no use. Sometimes I like to vent, is all. And where better to do it? I started this blog for two reasons. One was to get my creative juices flowing. I do write other stuff you know. Novels and whatnot. And they’re not angry. The second was to catalogue observations that I thought might amuse or resonate with others. So, I observe a lot of annoying people. The world is full of them. Is annoyance too in the eye of the beholder? Do other people walk around smiling all day? Is it really just me? I guess what I'm trying to say is that I am an angry blogger, mmmkay? And while I most certainly will have happy blogging days, for now I just feel like bitching. Deal with it!

**Excuses to drink up:

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/03/08/women-drinkers-gain-less-weight/?em

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/03/09/health/09real.html?em

Experts: Who needs 'em? No really...who?

The world is full of “experts” who are chomping at the bit to educate their fellow humans—from the annoying commuter who feels the need to explain to tourists that the Times Square Shuttle only has one stop, to the grandmother who feels it's her calling to tell you to shower before entering the pool at the gym, to the third time vacationer who insists on helping you navigate the hotel buffet. But did I ask you?

Last summer I went to watch Shakespeare in the park at Boscobel, a 19th century mansion overlooking the Hudson River. It was a gorgeous day, and before the sun sets and the play starts, ticket holders can picnic and enjoy a bottle of wine in the lush gardens. As I did just this, already embarrassed at the fold up table and chair I was assured was needed by another expert—my mother—I noticed a couple who had really gone all out. They looked like a Monet garden scene, with the woman in a long cotton dress and straw hat, a blue and white checkered tablecloth complete with mouth watering feast, and the backdrop of colorful roses exploding behind them. To my annoyance, they sat next to me when the play opened and the woman leaned over, invaded my personal space, and asked if I came here often. After admitting it was my first time, a look of flushed satisfaction came over her face as she proceeded to let me know “how things were done” here. She listed the plays she'd seen as if applying for a job as a Shakespeare analyst, described how the actors were quite raunchy and even made the tragedies seem funny, gave me the Cliff Notes version of the play we were about to see and provided the intricate details of her picnic dinner. I couldn’t even bother (lest I act as an expert myself) to correct her assumption of my literary ignorance—I had spent a full semester at University studying the complete works of Shakespeare and knew the plays inside and out. “And you might want to shrink down in your seat, because they pick people from the audience to help them act out!” she squealed unbecomingly. What intense satisfaction I felt, then, upon the realization later on that the people “picked out” of the crowd were obviously actors and had their lines scripted, so my overenthusiastic friend would NEVER be picked, raise her hand and whinny as she may.

Flash forward to this weekend. I decided to try Pilates for the first time at a local gym. An unsocial person by nature, my plan was to go 15 minutes early to get a good seat and to avoid having to talk to the regulars. Foiled again. As I sat minding my own business, a middle age woman expert came over to me and said “You got the wrong rubber band.” I wanted to say "And you have a thorny rose tattooed to your leg, but I'm not complaining." Instead I gave a half-hearted thanks and exchanged my rope for the correct, plastic Thera-Band. I resumed my position when I heard: “Oh, and, we usually turn our mats vertically.” Swinging my head to the right I scrunched up my face and said: “What?” to try to ward off her unwanted advice. “Otherwise there won’t be room for everyone else.” Before I could move, an older man (think Chris Elliot from his Get a Life days, but gray) came in and shouted “Oh boy, a Newbie!” to my distress. Walking over to where I was sitting, he circled around like a lost dog trying to pick up his poop scent. Finally, the woman expert leaned towards him and in an obvious whisper, said: “She took your seat.” I stood up dramatically, moved my mat into vertical position and gave her evils while Chris Elliot squeezed in next to me.

At that moment I vowed that I would kick some Pilates booty, Newbie or not! And boy, did I. As Chris groaned to my right and the lithe, scrawny ass teenager cried to my left, I pushed myself to the limit, with a smile (grimace) on my face. But with every move we made, Chris felt the need to give me a tip (You may not want to use the band on your first day, I betcha don’t know what we do with the pole…), or ask if I was regretting my decision to join the class.

At one point as we lay on our sides, facing each other, doing leg lifts, Chris’s gelatinous belly fell out of his shirt and sank onto the floor like a half filled water balloon. “Gonna come back for more?” he said through clenched teeth as sweat slipped off the remaining “island” of hair on his head and invaded his eyes. I ignored him and kicked my legs higher.

At the end of class, Chris slinked over to me and again asked if, being new, I would dare to try the class again. Looking around I noticed he was the only man, and picturing his lame attempts at the moves and his obviously out of shape physique (despite being the mayor of the class) it occurred to me that he was only there to meet women. “Bring it on,” I hissed.**

**Actually I said "Yes!" followed by a dorky giggle but I thought my other ending was more dramatic.
***As a side note, it’s been several days since I can walk. But we won’t mention that to Chris or any of the other experts in the class.

The Fall of a Dictator

Jobsworth: (almost strictly British) A low ranking official who follows their instructions and procedure to the letter. Often just to piss you off and to make them feel important.

For years he had me shaking in my boots every time I wanted to seek a little entertainment. Sometimes I would actively avoid his domain, either sending in reinforcements or going without on desperate nights of boredom. His fascist rule and unreasonable policies were unyielding. He was the manager of Hollywood Video, and he scared the pants off of me.

The first time I met Dan* I made the mistake of trying to rent a movie without a card. As I lived abroad and was only in town once in awhile, I used my parents' account. Before I had the chance to explain he barked: “license please.” I fumbled in my wallet, giggling nervously as one tends to do in the presence of intimidating people. But why was he so intimidating? He was as short as he was wide, had a mouth full of braces, a pale face riddled with raging zits and freckles, curly red hair and couldn’t have been more than 25. Yet something about his stern features and his inability to fold beneath my charm disturbed me.

He grabbed the license out of my hand, screwing up his face as he said my name. “Doesn’t match anyone’s name in the system,” he said. “But my name is different than my parents…so my license won’t…” I started to say. Sighing loudly, he rolled his eyes and said: “Primary account holder name?” Prickles of heat pranced across my shoulders as a queue of anxious parents and children tinkered behind me.

“It’s Fitz*, but my parents are divorced, so my last name is different, can you just use my phone number to look it up?” I said. Dan shook his head as if I’d just asked him to submit himself to Chinese water torture. Finally, he succumbed, mumbling about how it wasn’t supposed to be done this way.

The next time I went to rent a movie, I made sure to go at a different time, hoping it wasn’t Dan’s shift. I slipped into the shop, smiling at the harmless older woman at the front desk, and happily took my time making a selection. As I sauntered up to the desk to pay, grabbing a box of jujyfruits to celebrate, I heard: “Card and license please.” My eyes flashed up as the woman stepped aside and Dan resumed his rightful position.

“OK, look. I don’t have a card, and last time it was a real hassle so can I just get a new card?”
“Name and license?”
“Well, it’s under my parents’ account, so their name is…"
“Account holder has to ask for their own card.”

Crooking my jaw and holding onto the counter I prepared for the Mount Vesuvius of anger in me to blow. But it didn’t! Where was all of the aggression and bravado that usually helped me to tell people to stick it where the sun don’t shine? My hands were actually shaking. I took a deep breath.

“My parents want a new card. I promise you. They asked me to get one tonight.” I said.
“No can do. Tell your parents if they want a card, to come in themselves.”

A few days later I was cycling on the local bike trail when through the mist ahead a large looming figure emerged. As I got closer I saw it was Dan. He was walking quickly and tensely, as if a pole had literally been inserted into his ass. Across the large expanse of his man boobs, I saw the Hollywood Video logo sewn onto his shirt. We were miles from the video store. It suddenly dawned on me: yes, Dan was a big douche, but he had to walk miles to work, every day. Suddenly I felt a rush of sympathy. Who wouldn’t be a little annoyed after walking miles, covered in sweat, through rain or shine, to get paid minimum wage and deal with morons like me who had no card? And no wonder Dan hated me so much, I probably reminded him of all those bitchy girls in high school who'd never give him the time of day. How could he know that I was the champion of all nerds, dorks and the generally down and out? Next time I would bring my new card, and I would be so nice, he couldn’t hate me if he tried. Kill him with kindness.

“Card please.”
“Hey Dan! Here you go! I finally got a new one,” I said, smiling widely, piling popcorn and soda on the counter to surpass the ten dollar minimum needed to pay with a credit card.
“That will be $11.50” he said, still frowning.
“Cool. Thanks so much. Here’s my card.”

Dan swiped it, while I grinned stupidly, despite the fact that his eyebrows were still furrowed.
“You know what? Your card just froze my whole system. GREAT!” he said, his voice raising dangerously. He looked like a three hundred pound time bomb ready to blow.

“Ok, Ok, I have cash.” I said, starting to sweat, and digging around in my wallet. To my horror, all I had was a pile of dollar coins that the MTA ticket machine had spit out at me the other day.

“What are these, is this some kind of joke?”
“Um, they’re dollar coins.”
“Dollar what? I’ve never seen these in my life.”
“They give them out in all of the New York City subway and ticket machines. I swear they are legal tender.”
“Well, I wouldn’t know, I never go to Manhattan.”
No shit, I thought.
“Look, I promise they’re real, OK?”
“OK, fine. Now step aside, you’re holding up the whole line.”

Two years passed until I attempted to go into Hollywood Video again. This time, I brought backup--a friend who I'd prepared with horror stories of Dan. We both laughed and said that he couldn’t possibly still be working there. But as we stepped in, there he was, bigger and angrier than ever. I came prepared with my card and the more common paper variety dollar.

As I stepped up and handed him my goods, he said:

“I see your account has had no activity for two years. Looks like you have to pay the reactivation fee.” Oh for the love of all that’s holy!

What a surprise it was, then, this weekend, when I drove by Hollywood Video and saw "Going out of Business" signs and "Everything Must Go!" all over the dusty and forgotten windows.

My first thought was: HAHA! F*ck you Dan and your FN Rules! Whattaya gonna do now? Walk to Blockbuster two towns over?

My second thought was: Guess I have to take the plunge and use Netflix like everyone else.

My third and most annoying thought (which shows you how crazy and wussy I am) was: Poor Dan (seriously on verge of tears).

People Annoy Me

As I age (at an ever-rapid pace), I notice that my tolerance for people is disappearing just as fast as my youth. Let’s be frank. People annoy the ever-living shit out of me. I’ve been told I get this antisocial trait from my father, and though I used to consider myself bubbly and outgoing, I find it increasingly more difficult to fake it when I hear and see idiocy unravelled all around me. Maybe it’s post-Valentine’s day annoyance that’s making me extra irritable (brings out the moron in people) or maybe it’s just another day in vexville…in any event, there’s a place I have to go every day where aggravating people convene in close, inescapable proximity: the Metro North train.

Last night coming home from Manhattan I sat in one of those cramped six seaters, with two rows facing each other. The only way to handle the heat, rank body odor and intrusive noises emanating from my fellow passengers was to push myself into the crook between my seat and the window and try to sleep. Amid the rustling of bags, cracking open of beer cans and subsequent guzzling (when did this become so popular?), stomach gurgling and cell phone calls, a shrill, shrewish voice rang out above all the rest. I opened my eyes in utter disgust and focused on the source of the noise, in the seat across from me.

Shrew: “Excuse me Sir (to the conductor), but why does the schedule say the first stop is Chappaqua if we’re stopped right now in White Plains?” (note: text does not do justice to the high-pitched, self-important, brash, nails-on-chalkboard voice. Wish had podcast to prove point).

Conductor: “Well we let people on here, but not off, so it’s not a real stop.”

Shrew: “But then the first stop is White Plains, not Chappaqua. What difference does it make if people get on or off? It takes the same amount of time. We are stopping, are we not?”

Conductor: (detectable sigh of annoyance, but trying to be nice) These trains are jam-packed as it is, we throw a few trains in with less stops to make it more comfortable for everyone.

Shrew: (waving her hands around and looking at the masses, as if trying to rile them) But that is faulty advertising! You’re misinforming people! Chappaqua is NOT the first stop.

Conductor: (first signs of ‘tude) I’m not misinforming anyone. It’s MTA. Take it up with them.

Shrew: Well, I will. It’s not right. I’m being misinformed. We all are!

Conductor: You’ll get to your stop at the time the schedule says. It’s not misinforming.

Shrew: This is ridiculous!

Me: (unable to hold back) Are you kidding me? How FAHreaking annoying can you be?

Businessman next to me: Seriously lady, shut the fu*k up!

Me: (giddy with sudden realization that the masses are now being moved by me) Jeesh! Some people have nothing better to do than complain. Get over it! This is what I have to wake up to?

Shrew: I’m a copyeditor. I pay attention to these things.

Me: So am I, you don’t see me complaining and waking people up!

Luckily at this point we did stop at Chappaqua and the bane of my existence stepped off, still complaining as she left. Me and the business guy had a chuckle as to how humans can be so irritating and then I closed my eyes in an attempt to ward off further annoyance.

And a few updates on former blog posts….

*I saw a man on the train this morning use the Kindle for something other than “finding keys” (see Earwig’s Delight: Key Books). Apparently it can also be used to pick up women. The man leaned over his chair, invading the space of the girl in front of him, who was reading her Kindle, and said in a husky voice: “Do you like your Kindle?” The girl, startled and somewhat disturbed, said yes and resumed reading. “Cause I like mine,” the man whispered seductively. Unfortunately for him, the Kindle did not pull through, as the girl turned to him and said “My husband doesn’t like it though, cause I buy even more books now.” Ouch!

*Last night the news showed Silent Bob of Clerks, Mall Rats etc. using Twitter to wage war on Southwest airlines for forcing him to buy two seats for his size (You tweet 'em into submission Bob!). The news then panned to many morbidly obese people outraged, claiming that people come in all shapes and sizes and the airline should accommodate. Have to say, sticking to my guns here on the entitlement issue (Fat is the New Thin). Yes airplane seats suck and could be made a little bigger for everyone, but by the same token if your ass is already on half of my unnecessarily small (but paid in full) seat, buy two seats please!

Stealthy Stalkers

Stalker
1: to pursue quarry or prey stealthily
2: to pursue obsessively and to the point of harassment

The first time I was stalked, a construction-boot wearing lad liked my shoe selling abilities a tad too much, and after buying several pairs of boots from Sears—where I worked part time during high school—told me I looked like his dead girlfriend before lunging across the counter in an attempt to attack me. This jump started my career as a professional ‘stalkee’. But back then stalkers really had to toil! Not only did this poor fellow have to make multiple trips to the mall, spend gas getting there, dress and leave his house, but he also had shell out a few hundred bucks on waterproof Wolverines!

Man, these stalkers today—they have it way too easy. All they need to do is log on to Facebook or “Google” you. This allows for stalkage from afar, ergo nobody needs to know they're a victim. Unlike calling someone and leaving a message, or worse, hanging up when you know they have caller ID, nobody knows if you pore over their profile or lame gift registry.

And it’s not just creepy weirdos clad in boxers, searching for you from their home computer—it’s ex boyfriends/girlfriends, crushes, coworkers and the poor nerd in high school who never got up the nerve to say hello. And let’s face it—it’s you. Growing metaphorical “Facebook balls” has led to many a shocking friend request, uninvited e-mail and inappropriate chat session in these privacy-lacking times. The barriers have been broken, the playing field has been levelled, and anyone is fair game when there is a screen separating you.

I recently “broke up” with Facebook (I have long since erased all embarassing traces of having been on MySpace and Friendster) in a desperate attempt to recover my anonymity. But before doing so, I experienced the following phenomena:

*An old friend from college revealed that he was now a sadomasochist and asked if I wouldn’t mind walking on him in high heels, slapping him around, or spitting on him (or in his food).

*A guy who asked me to the high school prom (who I turned down because he was too short. Sorry!!) wrote to inform me, and I quote: ‘I’m married now. You snooze…you lose.’

*I mistakenly struck up a convo with a guy from my home town because I thought his MySpace site was cool, which culminated in him sending me a nude photo of himself complete with an amateur photoshopped gift box covering his privates, a la Saturday Night Live’s famous "Dick in a Box" skit (only not as a joke and before that sketch had ever even surfaced). The label on the gift box read: “Your Property”. Help!

*Several exes long since relegated to the closet o' skeletons, have resurfaced, as if spilling their woes, money issues and “I’m so bored with my wife” dramas would ever induce me to have another go.

And those are just a few (scarily enough, true) examples.

Remember when you used to be able to lose touch with people? Or break up with someone and revel in the fact that you never had to see them or their (bad clothes, unibrow, alcohol problem) again? Or pretend you were so much better looking than your ex’s new partner and that his or her life was a shambles since they left you? And cutting someone loose did not involve severing the seven degrees (or more) of Kevin Bacon as they are now Facebook friends with all of your friends or family members? Well, no more, my friends, no more. Personally I think I’d rather go back to the ‘stone age’ where my friends and I were not victims of this unrequited attention (and, hell, that we weren’t three steps away from having a restraining order slapped on us ourselves for obsessively tracking every move made by the ghosts of our pasts [and/or future]).