Too many things are wrong with the last ten years that in unison, society can agree it was a downward spiral of dumb-ing down, as I “air quote,” in theory.

With so many reality shows, technological advances and ridiculous voyeurism taking over our televisions, newspapers—what’s left of them-- and computer screens, it seems strange that anyone came out with a college degree.

Can we wave goodbye to discussing celebrity train wrecks like Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears and Amy Winehouse? These shouldn't be household names. It's safe to say, they are and forever will be messes. There is no miracle story behind the runny eye liner, bald head and yellow teeth. Didn't America learn with Courtney Love?

Along with those fine ladies, average joe's being made famous by acting like fools like Jon and Kate Gosselin, octo-mom as well as balloon boy and family have raised tax dollars by being idiot's on prime time networking. Let's put a stop to this.

MySpace: unless your band is on there, it's only for middle aged male perverts now; MySpace is the new Megan's Law.

Bad weight loss programs like Trim Spa: it doesn't work. Weight Loss will occur with proper diet and exercise that is attainable. Not a pill infused with caffeine making a person drop five pounds until they eat normal food again. Anna Nicole didn't make it on that pill, neither will you. Leave it in 2004.

Bad products like Bumpit's, George Foreman grill's (that keep coming out every year new and improved) and every celebrity perfume you can imagine.

Extremely bad reality television can stay in the 2000's. Shows like The Simple Life, American Idol and The Bachelor are procreating like rabbits. Isn't there some form of planned reality-hood for shows like these? There hasn't really been an American Idol since Kelly Clarkson anyway (she was the first winner right?). If Paula Abdul left, so can the greater public.

Being very supportive to causes that people know nothing about like: Greenpeace, Omnipeace, ONE, Al Gore (yes, he can be a cause), or Invisible Children. Congratulations to those who actually take part in supporting and working for them; however, no pat on the back for those who just become fans on Facebook.

Energy drinks. If only people knew how much sugar was harvested in these. Cans like Rockstar and Monster are also a portal to looking like river trash. Redbull should only be drunk with three ounces of vodka after dark.

Scary Movie, Date Movie, whatever. Yes, everyone got the point with Scary Movie 1-4, but 5-12 is just too much (see: How many Saw films does it take to get a point across).

Spending money on ridiculous things like $4 lattes, overpriced purses and jeans that cost more than car insurance; learning the value of a dollar is much easier after your parents throw you on the curb at the rightful age of 27. Your jeans will be happy to be sold on eBay for half price when you need to pay rent.

Really, really bad trends like Von Dutch, Ed Hardy tee shirts, bedazzled jeans, as well as shiny and furry-hooded-puffy jackets (unless you're Diddy). Have respect for others as well as yourself. No one wants to be caught at a movie with that chick that looks like a cast member of the Real Housewives of New Jersey.

Being addicted to the newest technological advances and social networking sites like blackberries, iPhones and Twitter. While they are fun, these innovative designs are inhibiting you from having friends that aren't avatars on Google. Let 2010 be a year you see the outdoors sans palm pilot.

Things like death, car accidents and bad break-ups or divorce cause us-- a spiritually "enhanced" society-- to go from confused to Confucius.

We enter a Zen state of mind while questioning many occult meanings of our daily lives that get set off key by inopportune occurrences.

Everything happens for a reason then, right?

I see your divorce and I raise you a case of herpes. How reasonable is that? It’s hard to find the Zen in a sexually transmitted disease, but trust me, it’s there.

Getting too drunk at your cousins wedding and mentioning how he slept with one of the bridesmaid's -last week (opps) –definitely happens for a reason. You now know the value of a dollar as the groom leaves you the dinner bill and signs you up for Alcoholics Anonymous. Fun.

Things like burning your mouth on hot coffee happens for a reason. It happens because patience is a virtue in such an instant gratification society. Now that your taste buds are singed, you can’t even enjoy Christmas dinner; hence your new instant diet. You always said you wanted to drop five pounds. Call it a blessing in disguise.

Your boyfriend dumped you: everything happens for a reason wise one. It happened because you need to learn about yourself as well as what you want in life. You got that “no good, lying, cheating idiot,” out of your life and you’re a new woman now (women need to find reason for everything: down to a dripping faucet). This definitely didn't happen because you need to learn how to spot a red flag when one is present; even if your friends were waving it. Not at all.

You got a speeding ticket. Ah, the Zen of it. Here’s the bad news about this one: there is no real Zen to a deficit in your bank account. There is no Zen in being shut down by a police officer after you try to womanize your way out of it. All you got out of this experience is loss of money and ego. You "don't still got it."

Did a raging case of Herpes turn you devout to a religion? Personally, it would turn me to death row as the “gift-giver,” would be beheaded.

A root canal is about as spiritual as it can get. Look into the light as you lay back in that chair. You just learned you need to take better care of your teeth as well as pay more attention to the six month check up post cards you receive in the mail.

A bad hair cut has Confucius written all over it. This teaches you material things are obsolete. Sure, you may look like George Michael in the back and Regis Philbin in the front, but you will learn from this. You're learning it's not about hair or appearance. It's about life, love and birds and birds and what not.

Never finding love; this is a question many magic 8 balls are sick of hearing. Love won’t appear on the screen of your eight ball so get out of the house. Nothing says Confucius like your grandma asking whether or not you're gay because you’re 27 and have yet to bring a man home.

Find solace in everything and learn from it, there is no time like the present.

How many times have you heard a guy say his ex-girlfriend is crazy, an airhead or psycho?

Maybe if you men took note of certain indicators pointing to crazy, airhead or psycho, you wouldn't end up in a blunder of bad relationships making you quiver just thinking about them.

Never trust a girl who:

Has children who call you Daddy upon the first meeting. Clearly she told them you're the new father. Prepare for a phone call from Maury producers if you keep it past date three and then try to break it off.

Says she's over her ex-boyfriend...of last month. No way. They dated for how long she said? Two years? You're definitely the rebound. She's trying to get over him and make him jealous by posting status updates all over her Facebook about you, followed with a thousand hearts.

You mention that you don't want a commitment right now, but want to keep that "special something" you two which she sheepishly agrees. Right.

She scares all the children at one of your family gatherings with an unasked for re-enactment of the monkeys in The Wizard of Oz. As they run, so should you. That's not normal.

She knows everything about you before you told her. Thank Facebook. She should be as surprised as Macaulay culkin when he's left home alone as you tell her you're a Texan native fresh out of the Peace Corpes.

Laughs at everything you say because she has a "morbid" sense of humor. Sure, knock knock jokes are funny but not your missing dog. No one is that soul-less.

Her entire TiVo history is nothing but The Hills and The City. Ask her who our vice president is.

The last book she read was Cosmopolitan.

She checks herself out in toasters, knives, black computer screens and the back of your iPod. The nerve. She cares more about herself than your existence as she throws her coat on you before dinner mistaking you for a doorman.

She thinks your paycheck is her new Coach purse. Life is not a Coach purse honey; get a job and stop being so tasteless.

You've never seen her eat. Everyone eats. Don't fall for the "but I have a weird condition, I don't eat food, I just drink water." She is a liar. Invite her on a camping trip and see how long she goes before passing out.

Whatever reason you keep crazy pants around--maybe she's good in bed or she's pretty to look at--it's not worth having to change your phone number and join the witness protection program when things go awry. Trust me.
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It's almost New Years Eve, another holiday season come and gone. I have already received text messages and calls asking what I'm doing on the blessed night and have not a clue; however, I'll tell you what I'm not doing: making a New Year’s resolution.

Every year I overhear people coming up with fundamentally idealistic plans to drop 50 pounds and quit smoking the first of the year; because December 31 is that different from January 1.

Resolutions have morphed into restraining orders against us, rather than promises of improving decently progressive area's of our lives. Isn't that what they are for anyway? Not cutting ourselves off.

Resolutions shouldn't involve blood, sweat and tears or unfeasible dreams because they are too vague. It’s inevitable we fail if our means to achieve are only as pragmatic as the resolution itself.

I like to live life comfortably. By that, I mean I don't like pictures of overtly thin and scary models on my fridge tagged with Post-it note’s telling me to hop on a treadmill instead of grabbing ice cream. I don’t need to feel the awkward years of High School all over again in my kitchen. That alone is therapy for another six years.

I'm not forbidding myself from drinking or even cutting back. I enjoy a drink--or three--here and there. Those who say they want to drink less after the first of the year sound like they need less of a resolution and more of a treatment center. I hear Promises in Malibu is nice.

I'm not going to tell myself to floss more, that will make me floss less.

I'm not hitting the gym every day, twice a day, and forcing myself to love it. Making your resolution to get in shape doesn’t have to be boot camp. Ever heard of resentment? You may be familiar with it if you're reading this and these were indeed your resolutions. I'm saving you from yourself. Thank me later.

I'm not declaring strangers my new best friend. No way. Yeah, you're cute or you have an interesting way about yourself, but I like to Google strangers before adding you to all 33 of my social networks and introducing you to friends and family.

To be realistic is simple: resolute the attainable. Let’s be honest, learning six languages and getting a marriage proposal is a bit irrational. Leave those for the professional New Years Eve Resolution-ers.

This list has been building in my head. Daily, I have opportune moments with other people who feed idiosyncrasies that I love to hate.

Never trust a guy who:

Has a last name as a first name or a first name as a last name. Odds are, he dubbed himself this name. Mark John just likes the sound of himself.

Wears white sunglasses. It's not 1998 anymore, bleached tips and flame adorned dress shirts are out, as are white framed Oakley's. Get with it.

Has better tweezed--waxed--eyebrows than you. Someone enjoys themselves a little too much, therefore will never love you as much as he love's himself...and his tweezers.

Wears jeans and a belt to the gym. He clearly isn't there to work out. He's there to lurk.

Can recite lines to the movie 27 Dresses.

Takes pictures of themselves in their bathroom mirror and then has the audacity to post them to a public forum. Come on now, leave that for the tween community in Junior High.

Calls his parents by their first names and he's neither a step child or adopted. I do it to get on my Mom's nerves when she is prodding; however, I do not do it when I want her to pass the butter.

Brings you back to his place and immediately puts on a smoking jacket and suede slippers while proceeding to ask if you would like to shag now or later?

Asks his guy friend if it's okay if he hangs out with you, every time you ask. You might want to rethink your friendship.

Spells you're and your the same: no matter what context.

Is relying on his band to make it big. He is 26, musically inept and his band plays free shows at Keno's. Unless they have a fan base and a keyboardist to do most of the sounds, as well as relay a lead singer, the biggest thing happening is the breakfast served past 11 a.m. on Friday's.

Cooks you dinner but only has chopsticks and red cups to serve it with.

Has a bikini top tan line.

Has Playboy centerfold wallpaper in his room and or house. We all know you look at that, but we don't need to know how often or in what chair, sofa, bed, rug, room, closet, drawer, etc.

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As a kid in high school, you spend the four years imagining where you will end up in life. You wonder what you'll look like at your high school reunion, whether you will be married, have kids,a career or are just homeless. You and your best friends have a special pact that you will all go together no matter what happens. That is until Jenny gets knocked up by your boyfriend two years later.

I always fancied myself having moved far away, looking completely different--so unrecognizable that even my fingerprints reject me--and I would be with a staggering man who was a multi millionaire; possibly the heir to something like Capri Suns. My infamous career would inhibit me from actually going to the reunion and therefore I would send my assistant to relay my condolences for being unable to make it. I was young.

Of course, I would never wish any of that upon myself now; however, with Facebook, I really don't see any need in actually attending a reunion in person when it occurs.

Daily, I get an unasked for invitation to the lives of those I hoped to never see again. I am subjected to heinous status updates as well as insipid pictures of babies and weddings. No, no and no. I am too young to be anything other than a nanny let alone mother. My premature mind doesn't want to get event invitations to baby showers for people my age.

I get requests from people I forgot existed (my apologies). People somehow find their way into forcing me to add them because they're married and I don't recognize the last name. Therefore I have to ask myself why a Veronica Weller is adding me.

After deciphering how decent she looks on a scale with one end screaming crack whore promoting clubs and the other end a possible former co-worker, I weigh out the score and add her to figure it out. To my surprise, it's the bitch who called me Jessica Drunk for four years. Not so funny for an insecure adolescent.

The friend’s suggestions on my news feed are equally irritating. It's like running into a one night stand at the bank, over and over again. You thought if you graduated you would never have to see them again but they keep popping into your life as well as desktop.

The only reason I was friends with 80 percent of the people I knew was because of proximity. I had no license, we all chose photo as an elective (easy A) and were on the swim team together or something of that nature. They were around me five days a week, seven hours a day; I had to have someone to stand in the lunch line with.

In an article featured in Time Magazine about attending his High School Reunion, Joel Stein mentions how Nicholas A. Christakis and James H. Folwer's book Connected, indeed says we chose our "friends through proximity and shared activity.”

So yes, while my current friends are within proximity again and do share common interests, these are people I actually adore; people who, for the sake of Hallmark, complete me.

Now I take pride in my friends who I actually share common interest with. I take so much pride that I don't want to share my special friends with anyone. Especially on a social network for people I never liked who just want to lurk through my pictures.

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Ever find yourself sitting in a library, quietly studying for a crucial exam when suddenly a jack hammer goes off? The sound only lasts a millisecond but is so loud, it scares you to the point where you become rampantly pissed off?

"It's the sound that makes me punch infants;" A line made infamous by Dane Cook. A line that I--a law abiding, non child abusing citizen--often want to act out due to un-asked for stress elevations. These are not so much pet peeves as they are anger management issues, but deep down we all know we have them. I'm no less crazy than you are.

This passionate angst can be triggered from several things like teachers; teachers are the worst. Some have a habit of passing out tests then continuing to speak for the next six minutes.

I'm the kind of test taker who takes it so seriously, I can hear other people’s pencils bubbling in answer's on their Scantron. Normal folk call this high stress followed with Schizophrenia. I call it overly stimulated and well prepared.

When the test is out, I expect a quiet environment. Not a "little side-note," followed with 12 questions as well as a re-institution of stress due to her notification of a a few trick questions.

Other moments might include the cougher. Not the cougher that actually has Tuberculosis, the cougher that just has a tickle (I question whether it's all in their head) and has to cough one cough as loud as he can repeatedly in a waiting room or on an airplane. It’s as loud as a wood block being punched in half by Jackie Chan.

If it isn't a person pissing you off, it's probably things around the house. Things like your computer deciding to shut off mid nine page paper. You stand and scream about its worthlessness as well as how much you loath the object by parading around the room with a fist in the air.

After storming out of the room and returning to restart it, you find it shutting off again 10 seconds later. The next person who comes into the room is doomed as you tell him you hate the way he dresses and how he writes his J's. See? Certain things make a person mad and erratic.

The Blender: Your story about how you saved a baby from a fire means nothing to Nancy who just got a new food processor off the Home Shopping Network. What’s worse is every time you think she's done, she puts another carrot inside it. You're playing "how much louder can you go?" with an inanimate object and you're losing. You lost to a food processor. You are pissed and you lost to a food processor. Your guest is now leaving. You think of ways to fit Nancy inside her new food processor but decide you'd rather not change your home address to the state prison's.

Other inanimate objects you may chose to despise might include alarms. No: People who don't wake from alarms but wake you instead. I often ask myself why I can hear the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing and my roommate can’t.

Did she take too many Ambien’s last night? Does she have a pulse? Nothing makes me more upset in the morning than having to clap, snap, shout, and throw objects at a person to wake them from their beauty sleep.

Maybe your "thing" isn't on this list and you think I am indubitably crazy, but guaranteed you will get get cut off by someone on your way to work tomorrow. You will then choose to speed up, ride their tail, flip them off, stare them down, and maybe picture running them off the road until you feel better.

It takes a strong person to retire bad habits like typing LiKe ThIs. It also takes a strong person to decide when your friends--adult friends--have not equally performed the same tasks and should be unfriended.

The word unfriend was chosen by The New Oxford American Dictionary as the word of the year for 2009. America, go figure; never a profound word.

To delete a friend via social networking is the literal meaning. No longer are you just screening phone calls and writing hate songs about people you detest, you're digitally cutting them out of your life. Ouch.

Too often do I sign onto Facebook and am subjected to heinous news feeds filled with status updates in all capital letters. I used to give people the benefit of the doubt thinking their Caps Lock key was stuck due to an unfortunate accident (maybe mittens, their dubious cat, was screwing around on the laptop).

I already get yelled at at work, by my parents and weirdos on the street; the last thing I need is to be yelled at on Facebook. Yes, Caps Lock means your yelling; if you're religiously using it, you should know this.

Besides dealing with verbal abuse, my IQ is continually dropping as uneducated friends (see, "how to lose friends by writing about them on blogs") feel the need to completely sabotage words: ie: like to lyke and something to sommin.

If you're scratching your head because you thought those were defined words, you have been smoking too much pot and watching Blues Clues. If you want to sound like a reputable human being at some point in your adult life, spell words with their birthed spelling or go join a prepubescent chat room on AOL about Taylor Lautner.

Not only is my IQ at stake but I am being exposed to filthy and tasteless pictures. I don't want to see pictures of you in lingerie nor do I need to see pictures of you peeing on the curb after six keg stands. I get it, you think you are hot and want the world to see you; however, sometimes more should be left to the imagination on account of the freshman 30 (we all really know the freshman 15 is: 15 plus 15 more).

Seeing you at your ultimate low--which to you, is the ultimate high-- is hysterical for some but is also scary. They say the biggest threats to society give us warning signs. Your verbalization on Twitter of how much you miss your boyfriend every time he's at work or school can be decoded as cries for help. Don't be a statistic.

Regardless of data, getting too political, lurking, stalking, having spastic reactions to Grey's Anatomy every week as well as claiming yourself the biggest Lakers fan in the world will get you unfriended. Besides, last time I checked, the biggest Lakers fan was over 6'8 and weighed 320 pounds, fat chance.

If your only scare of deleting these status update, profile editing, Farmville playing fanatics is because you may see them at Target one day, then you're just as guilty. You're just as guilty as following every Miley Cyrus fake Twitter account in hopes that one of them is really her.

It's easy to be unhappy and get prescribed med's from the doctor. I could do it today if I wanted to. It's a matter of incomparable role playing, tearing of the eyes, feeling like the world is caving in on me and making sure the doctor knows it. Fairly simple.

Medications are costly as are co payments at the doctor's office; besides, who really wants a caustic doctor asking why you're so upset over your missing boots--all you really want is someone to empathize and make you feel better.

While some opt for cheaper medications like a bottle of two buck chuck, others gravitate towards activities or things that make a person insta-happy. Things that people secretly get a freaky high off of like pulling blades of grass from the yard or muting reality television and adding your own lines.

Some people like Disneyland and I don't blame them. The second you walk into the park you want to eat the benches because everything smells like an edible gingerbread house. Minus the strollers obtrusively jabbing you in the shins, smelly tourists and the detestable lack of English spoken, people still find resonance in all that.

Others run. They run for miles and days until they are so soar they sleep in a tub of ice. It's liberating, yes, especially running across such places like the Golden Gate Bridge as bikers harp at you because they are on the LEFT or the RIGHT or BEHIND YOU. Relaxing.

Some eat lavish meals that involve an aged wine to make while others drown sorrows in a lake of half melted Chubby Hubby while parked in front of a Friends marathon. Yes, your boyfriend is not answering his phone, again, but at least get low fat since this tends to be a re-occurrence.

Others shop. Shopping relieves the kind of stress that only Victoria Beckham has. Waking up to David Beckham, spending a disposable income, having the nanny dress the kids for school while she works out; I wouldn't be able to get out of bed either.

There are so many obvious ways to relieve bereaved emotion and stress other than a talking a pricey pill . Some say just smiling will brighten your mood or just dancing around--because men love dancing around to the latest dance hit.

If self loathing in a Godiva chocolate box is your Prozac then so be it. Come on, everyone has their own Prozac.

Think we are in a recession? Just go to Disneyland to be proven otherwise. Nothing about the theme park remotely hints economic downturn.

There are no bread lines; no sack lunches—beside my own—or any children in tears over parent’s refusal of buying them light sabers and needless souvenirs.

Indicators that we aren’t in a recession point to these factors at the happiest place on Earth.

Disney knows how to market itself and also knows who its buyers are. Those buyers are ones who have money, the kind of money that indeed grows on trees in faraway lands. The kind of buyers who will fly into John Wayne Airport on their private jets and stay for days at Disney Resorts (okay, maybe not private jets, just first class). Their customers live lavish lives, go on extensive vacations on Disney cruise lines or even visit their sisters parks in Paris or Tokyo. Because Disney knows these are their customers, they waste no time catering to their every need.

Being a Disney customer is like holding a membership to a country club. You get fun catalog's in the mail, wear their gear while visiting the premise and enjoy their fine dining.

Throughout the theme park, visitors are adorned in head to toe outfits with each piece containing Mickey or another Disney character on it. If you thought denim suits were out, you are poorly mistaken. Denim pants, with matching denim jackets and hats containing mouse ears recognizable to even the blind decorate the clothing.

Three night stays at the park are a must for travelers from afar. The Sheraton across the street is one thing; however, The Grand California Hotel is quite the contraire. These rooms are not filled with couples; they are filled with families of four or more and you bet they are trying out every restaurant the hotel has to offer.

These travelers do not bring snacks or pack a cooler with goodies from the grocery store. They eat breakfast, lunch and dinner as well as snacks and desert in and on Disney grounds. They are feasting on lavish buffet breakfasts at their hotel, lunches in cafes on Main Street and dining in eloquent restaurants like Club 33.

Don't forget the clever notion Disney has in fanning scents through airways making people want to eat the inedible. I am sure Disney would make even more money if they provided a roped off section of the park that was fully edible, all the way down to the cash register.

The best treats are at the entrance, because there is no greater fear than a child seeing a candy apple looking like Donald Duck and bawling because they want it. Parents avoid this by buying the candy apple, as well as its sister and brother sweets and many other upsetting candies and snacks if not bought at the beginning (middle and end) of the day.

Kids are not crying because they aren't getting toys, they are crying because they don't want to leave. Why? Leaving consists of a place that doesn't involve toy stores, candy stores and big furry characters high fiving them. Crying while Mommy drag's them out on Winnie the Pooh leashes, they are all dressed up in princess costumes and face paint while waving glowing objects that spin, talk and sparkle.

If the park is filled with thousands daily, these people are out in the world spending money frivolously aiding to the economical upturn. On top of its theme parks and film revenues, Disney and ABC in part are thriving with hit television shows like Lost, Desperate Housewives and that ridiculous Dancing with the Stars. Disney is thriving and it will most likely continue to do so. Whoever said Big Brother is watching got it all wrong. It's those big black ears and that uncanny laugh we need to watch out for.

Source: CNN

Read my posts on Examiner here

When crushing turns into stalking:

"She magically appears in places you are. Funny seeing her in the paleontology section of your library where you chose to study because it is dark, quiet and there is one desk hidden in the corner. Not"

Places to meet a twenty-someone in Anaheim:

"Ever feel like you are looking in all the wrong places for a significant other? Guess what, you most likely are."

After seeing a commercial for the new Victoria’s Secret bra--the Miraculous Push-up--saying it adds two cup sizes, I instantly laughed at a memory of what a friend told me. He mentioned there is no worse thing than false advertising and I completely agree.

Who likes being told they are going to receive a $100 bill then upon receiving it, it turns out to be Monopoly money? Exactly.

What on earth is up with faux beauty these days? Do men really enjoy the artificial exterior most women are dawning?

Being a woman, I see the ins and outs of freaky body enhancers on infomercials and well, people I encounter. From fake hair, eyelashes, bra padding, fingernails, body shape-wear and tanning, I wonder what will be next: a self adhesive mask that comes with a full face of makeup and color contacts that dissolves when adding warm water at night?

I can’t imagine men liking this; I could be wrong though. It is all phony marketing. I would hate to be in love with someone’s hair and then while running my hands through it, a chunk comes out or a laceration is formed from a glued in clip.

Wearing lashes don’t look natural on anyone unless they are those expensive ones that are semi-permanent; I know men can tell the difference between fake and real: especially if one falls into your drink while you are on a date, or one is stuck in your hair. Classy. It's one thing to wear them for costumes or huge events, but everyday attire should be left to socks.

It is mid November and yet people are so tan it looks painful. Yes, it’s nice to have color, but what won't be nice are those medical bills for skin cancer treatments in a few years. So the advent of spray tanning and self tanning is healthier, sure, but it doesn’t look natural by any means. Orange is not the new olive skin tone. It comes off on clothing too; I would hate to get my knee prints on someone’s sheets.

All this body shape wear is beginning to really scare me. Walking through the mall, I noticed an entire store completely devoted to this stuff. Imagine nude body suits with lines on them looking like marks a plastic surgeon left all over your body. Yes, it may have taken two inches off your waist but what happens when you are getting down to the nitty gritty with someone and they find that? I hope you brought scissors because a guy is not going to have the first clue what to do.

So I have to ask all the men out there: Do these things turn you on or off? I am a woman and they turn me off. I would never want to find out a guy I am with really doesn't have a five o' clock shadow after the adhesive melts and it slides down his neck.

I say be yourself. At the end of the day, you are going to have to come clean, literally, so why not start now?

'Tis the season for gift giving for no holiday is quite as fun as one you can receive presents on. Thanksgiving is great, but it lacks stockings full of bathroom condiments (at least that’s what I get).

Let's face it; Christmas has become a four month debacle beginning in September when that first ornament is on display at local drug stores.

Kelsey Ramos of the LA Times discusses the Oprah effect on Holiday shopping beginning a bit too soon. In October, Oprah aired a show discussing stores that were distributing coupons for 50 percent off their entire stock until the end of October.

"This time many are wondering if Oprah's featured offer is just an early example of the acceleration of Black Friday's rabid consumerism," said Ramos. "All this, and Halloween hasn't even arrived yet."

Target had Halloween items on clearance a week and a half before October 31st. Winter paraphernalia adorned the store while holiday items were placed at the front of racks.

This act of gift giving seems to hasten every year leaving two things: very gifted people or very envious people.

Last year's Oprah show of her "favorite things" consisted of ridiculous items like $800.00 video cameras, a set of cupcakes from Williams-Sonoma--a store that just smells pricery--for $59 and a Clarisonic skin care system for almost $200. Nothing says Christmas quite like an electric skin care system does.

My question is: haven't people heard of devil's food cake? It costs about $1.97 at local supermarkets. If you are afraid of poor attempts at Martha Stewart recipes this holiday season, then go buy icing bags for decorating and call it a day. Who in their right mind buys nine cupcakes for $59 as a gift? The answer is a plethora of middle aged housewives. If I am spending $59 on anything it’s definitely a steak dinner at Morton’s.

After Oprah wheels these out on a cart, divulges in one while ooing and ahing over its decadence (it’s almost taboo to watch), she then has her little elves--assistants--carry an array of cakes out on a silver tray for her audience. They then chime in with an uproar of frenzied screaming, jumping, as well as possible passing out and there you have it America: consumerism at its finest. Williams-Sonoma cupcake business rose by 90 percent last Christmas.

Personally, I enjoy gifts that mean something. Gifts like soap on a rope from distant family members or gifts that somehow got re-gifted in my own family. It's always nice opening something you gave to an Aunt twelve years ago.

While I open boxes from Nordstrom's that contain puzzles from Wal-Mart as others receive $59 cupcakes, I am reminded that there's just nothing quite like the holidays.

After all, it's not Christmas until you are watching the news and it's suddenly interrupted by a commercial consisting of Oprah shouting:

“It's that tiiiiiime againnnnnnn!”
Photo by Wendy Alas

"A man should never hit on girls in a parking lot. People are in parking lots for three reasons: arrival, departure and theft."

Read the rest at of this article at Examiner

It's that time of year again; when fresh aromas of comforting foods like pumpkin pie and turkey fill your home. Malls make you feel warm and fuzzy with jolly music and winter wonderland displays; you get to reunite with family members who you see once a year (possibly for good reason).

It's also the time when people think of ridiculous reasons to have parties where little to no clothing is involved.

The kick off is Labor Day. You know, wearing a flag wrapped around your body and waving a sparkler? When did Labor Day become so patriotic anyway? Everyone mixes Memorial and Labor Day together, it may as well be called Laboremorial Day.

Halloween: the time where you think long and hard about something really awesome and clever to be in which you end up in a negligee, thong and hard hat. You guessed it: construction worker.

Thanksgiving: well, this holiday hasn't landed me an invite to a 'give thanks for beer and boobs' party yet, but I won't rule it out. Indians and pilgrims running around in loin clothes and lingerie doing keg stands, I can see it.

Christmas: Ugly sweater and white elephant parties are in the past. It is all about wrapping yourself up as a gift to be opened under the mistletoe. Let your imagination do the talking. Putting on red lingerie and a Santa hat and ta-da: ho, ho, ho!

New Years Eve: Let's just be honest, everyone is drunk beyond belief--probably wearing a very revealing outfit--to land that aforementioned midnight kiss. Ladies, this holiday is forgivable because when there are no honorable mentions within 60 feet, you do need a few tequila sunrises to get you through the night.

I used to think I had it bad when family members drank too much Franzia at holiday parties before confusing me as the valet at the age of ten. Looking back, those memories are pure entertainment. You never know what's going to come out of Uncle Ned's mouth after some spiked eggnog unlike a group of girls who all show up in dresses adorned in mistletoe and bows.

Heard of Kish Mauve? No? Now you have. I am not claiming myself a music connoisseur; however, the song: I'm in Love With Your Rock and Roll, had me at hello.

It takes little to nothing to get a reality show these days. I don't actually want one, but I want to prove a point by saying why my insipid daily routines deserve to be filmed and aired like all the other celebrities out there.

I too don't have a real career. Kim, Kloe, and Kourtney Kardashian are all filmed getting their nails done, shopping and slapping each other. I do my nails, on my couch while watching reruns of Friends, I also shop at trendy clothing stores--Target and Forever21...(what?)--and I can easily slap siblings. Running frivolously around my house in a velour track suit complaining, punching and text messaging on my really cool cell phone is so easy.

I eat lunch with friends. Sometimes I wonder if the only thing the cast of The Hills has to do during the day is eat lunch at an upscale cafe on Melrose Avenue. Sitting outside--never indoors because that would be a drag--while never actually consuming plates of lettuce. Sometimes my friends and I frequent Chipotle which has a plethora of outdoor seating. We discuss wordly topics, like who is dating who even though we already know the answer. We also love to act shocked when we fill each other in on our lives by gasping and leaving our mouths agape for long periods of time.

I can set up cameras in my walk in closet and do confessions too. Confessions that involve me reading, re-reading and trying to pronounce colossal words on scripts. It's easy by the ninth take.

I live in a highly populated area of cougars--I mean real housewives. Everyone around me drives cars bigger than they need, tans more than should be allowed and loves rhinestone dedazzled shirts, dresses, shoes, bags, and larger than life wedding rings.

I know people who cheat and have no real problem asking a friend to video tape me while spying and busting them. There are plenty of 7-Eleven's that would make great backdrops for this...since it will be scripted of course.

I have two little dogs. Everyone loves seeing little dogs dressed up in outfits matching their owners; I can put clothes on mine too. Not that I condone animal cruelty, but for television, count me in.

I have an old friend who is distantly related to the boys in Hanson. Why not make a name for myself as Jessica Druck, friend of boy band Hanson. No one has to know, right? The Kardashian's are simply the daughters of O.J. Simpson's lawyer, or Bruce Jenner's stepkids, whatever. Okay they have two ties--way to one up me. Regardless, I will shamelessly name drop Hanson as I please.

I have lived with over seven strangers in the past year and a half, in a foreign place--San Francisco--and lived in a house. People totally stopped getting polite and totally got real. Hello MTV? Perfect candidate!

I also love to exercise so that is a simple thrust into one of your many challenges with old castmates.

I can get in fights in bars and make people wonder why there is a camera crew following a 22-year-old unrecognizable girl. Just give me a few vodka collin's and someone who looks like they are from the Rock of Love Bus and you have yourself a two part episode.

I have over sized black sweaters, huge sunglasses and clunky shoes. I can be chauffeured while I sip on a venti coffee from Starbucks and address everything as bananas; minor changes.

I know my resume is huge so don't all jump at once.
Christina K at Debut art

While stalking old High School classmates on Facebook and chatting with some friends, you get a notification in the bottom right corner saying you have a new friend request. With joy like a child on Christmas morning you immediately click the notice to see who is befriending you.

With intense momentum you wait as now, your Internet decides to go slowly. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart because the anticipation is killing you. Maybe it’s someone you just met recently that you thought was cute or perhaps someone who is your number one fan?

No. It’s your mom. Cue Psycho theme song. You can see the twins pedaling towards you from The Shining. To add or not to add?

You begrudgingly accept after quickly reviewing your profile to make sure there is nothing lewd. Looking at her profile just raises your stress level. Status updates are actually attempted comments to other friends, pictures are saved images from Google of kittens and Disney Princesses because she doesn’t know how to upload pictures. Cowering at her activities and interests, you wonder who this person is and why she shared her interest for trashy romance novels and Jon Bon Jovi.

Parents, grandparents, relatives, your dentist, you name it, are quickly adapting to our lifestyles. There was a time when parents knew their place in the world: going to work, cooking dinner, helping with homework, and tucking us in at night…parent things.

Now Dad is text messaging you—using phrases like LOL and WTF—Mom is singing loudly to Beyonce and watching The Hills.

They are quietly studying your social networking sights which you don’t believe they know how to do until one night at dinner Mom slips something about Rum and how much you like it; something she wouldn’t know had she not seen a picture of you kissing a bottle of Bacardi.

They are talking about celebrities because they saw that Scarley Johannes and Justy Timberwood on Oprah and now feel they know everything about them; yet can never get their names right.

Television program blocking should come for parents too. Stick to the View; MTV is for a 15- year-old girl plastering Zac Effron posters on her walls.

Saying things like “WTF,” is not okay, no matter what. If anything, you should be trying to speak grammatically correct to teach your offspring that language is not okay. Your 24 year old son needs to stop saying "LOL" while conversing with other adults as well.

They are here to stay, on the Internet that is. Just be sure to hide your Teen Vogue and Seventeen subscriptions; I'd hate to see someone over the age of 40 try out ripped skinny jeans and slouchy beanies.
"Too many women confuse the "click" of a good connection with the "tick, tick, tick," of a Time Bomb that's just waiting to go off." Read more at The Race to Find Mr. Right

Just before placing the last sugar free pudding snack on the conveyor belt at the grocery check-out, you over hear two guys gawking over Adriana Lima’s legs, boobs, hair, eyes and how bad they want to sleep with her.

You, the now insecure and three inch tall human being, look down at your Converses, tattered jeans and collegiate sweatshirt before forming your own sense of self worth: disgust.

Young girls have pictures of Ashley Tisdale and Vanessa Hudgens plastered to their folders while women compare themselves to the covers of Cosmopolitan and Maxim too often; an insatiable desire wanting to look like a specific female superstar that will never be satisfied.

Yes, Penelope Cruz has it all: Fame, fortune, great hair, awesome boots, a handsome boyfriend, and a sexy accent; however, that is all surface matter. Anyone can go to a mall and buy boots, get a great haircut (or buy some hair these days) and fake an accent…whatever.

What makes you so less-awesome than her? Just because she is in a magazine everyday doesn’t mean your indescribable wit, Crest Whitestrip smile and whimsical charm is something less noticeable to friends and strangers.

I’ll be the last to deny I often catch myself drooling over leggy-legs I long for just before snapping back to reality and realizing everyone is different. No one is supposed to look like each other except Mary Kate and Ashley who are genetically bound for life. Sorry Ashley.

Insecurity is the prognosis; however, ask any man what he looks for in a woman and it’s certainly not: must look like Jennifer Anniston.

Men appreciate women for who they are, not who they aren't. Face it; men love women, all kinds. So yes, while he is gazing at a picture of Megan Fox, don’t forget he is with you and she is nothing but a picture—an advertisement for purses. Relax. Now, if he is addressing you as Megan and asking what it’s like to work with Shia Labeouf, then it’s time to move on.

What makes dating so great is all the variety anyway. While I enjoy staring down pictures of favorite stars, I know they too are real people with makeup on and stylists slaving over them. Hell, Zac Effron would be nowhere without his beauty specialists. Let’s be honest.

No one is perfect. Continually acting as though you are someone else will only deter any real chance you may have had with Mr. Right now.

Be smart. Don't point out your perceived flaws because you are the only one pointing them out. Everyone has them. No one is an airbrushed photo or simulated character in a movie. If we were, life would not be exciting; just scripted like syndicated series on Lifetime.

Take pride in your noticeable laugh and freckles. Own your unique look because you, my friend, are the only one who has it.

Now take a better look at those two guys in front of you. One is carrying two 24 oz cans of Miller High Life, wearing a shirt that says, “you’re a wizard Harry,” with a wand pointing in the upward direction, while the other looks like Rosie O’ Donnell’s distant cousin. Do you really think they have a chance with Lima or Fox--let alone you? Hardly

It’s a good thing our thoughts remain thoughts. If people could hear the way many of us think, we may seem clinically insane and uneducated. The little lies we tell ourselves to keep our panic and insecurities tucked away seem frivolous and silly yet we continue to do it; no matter how often the outcome proves our logic incorrect.

"Letting someone in my lane will give me karma:" highly unlikely. Does this mean Gandhi spent a lifetime of lane changes? Did he let everyone who had one less item than he at the grocery store go in front? Not sure, but the answer is presumably no. If karma is what you are looking for, visit a Buddhist temple or read The Secret.

“Beer before liquor, never been sicker; liquor before beer and you're in the clear:” wrong. Alcohol will make you sick whenever it feels like it. You just had too much and can't cheat the system by drinking in a different order. Try eating a pita pocket before you down a bottle of scotch and a six pack of Newcastle.

"My ex is commenting my best friend's status updates; he is in love with her and she is a cheating, lying slut." Okay, what? How is he in love when he clicks "like," as her status reads: Nicole stopped breathing today for ten minutes but was revived. Also, how is she a cheating slut? Cheating on a chemistry test is by far different than cheating on a nonexistent boyfriend, ex, of best friend? It is not a marriage proposal, step away from the computer.

"God, if you make me stop feeling sick, I will go to Church again every Sunday." Who are you kidding? Sip your soup and watch a movie. Church is for the health conscious who take their vitamins anyway.

"Well, since I worked out today, I'll have the large ten piece chicken stars with curly fries and shake." Yes, working off 60 calories while watching Gillian Michael's work out on DVD as you go back and forth from the couch to your mat, equates to consuming 1600 calories at the Cluck Bucket.

"If I shut my eyes for just two minutes at a time, my teacher will never know I am sleeping during lecture." Sure, you have everyone fooled. After the third failed attempt of waking yourself up at the two minute mark, your snoring, drooling and twitching were not distracting at all.

"That shirt is on sale for 20 dollars. I will save so much because it used to be 50. I must have it." If saving money involved handing cashiers my debit card, then I too would be wealthy like you undoubtedly are. Whatever money saving book you are reading, it should be burned.

"He or she is not calling me because their phone was lost, their house probably burnt down or they were probably contacted for a charitable research project in Africa that can't be discussed just yet." Uh, what? They aren't calling because they are on the couch watching a movie with someone they are interested in. Go read a book.

"I am so cool because I can get into bars and I am only 19." You are as cool as that Smirnoff Ice in your hand. Being in a dive bar that peaks at 9:00 p.m. while possibly housing your friend’s parents, is the furthest thing from cool. The door man is so old he literally can't see the date on your fake ID because the print is too small. You also look nothing like Nancy, the 43 year old Minnesota native with a completely different hair color, and face for that matter.

If these lies get you through the night, then I would hate to be your sleep deprivation. Keep lying. It's hurting no one...really.

Check out nz-sublime and all his captivation

Mind that it's about Anaheim...

I often hear friends as well as people I eavesdrop on at Starbucks mention how there are no men in Orange County, let alone Anaheim--it's smaller subculture. I think to myself that this must be a fallacy because there are tons of men everywhere. Constantly, my ego is boosted by “landscape artists” who whistle and shout: reason enough to walk the dog in the morning.

Looking at the population of Anaheim-- just over 330,000 people according to data--I wonder who these eligible bachelors are and why—if there are so many people—are women set on the thought of never finding someone.

Well, for starters you have guys like Ken Doll—coincidentally his first and last name—who drives a yellow, raised Hummer, self tans, wears very deep V-neck tee shirts and calls every one (even women) broseph after patting them on the back while awkwardly hanging on for too long.

Claiming he is an expert in retrieving stuffed animals from vending machines, there is Romano—no last name—who wears shorts longer than pants and has his area code, last name and possibly street address tattooed on his body.

Lastly, Chip Miller, a 22-year-old male who enjoys surfing, beer pong, girls, beer pong, reading (Maxim) and South Park: what a catch!

Yes ladies, these are our options if you are out on the prowl. So I take back my wonderment on why you feel you will never meet someone; however, the male to female ratio on the data research is fairly equal. Proving there is good news beneath it all, there’s a Ken Doll for everyone. Personally, Chip sounds like a ball to me.

You know what I despise more than waking up to a jack hammer? People who question factual information. People who, for whatever reason, can't seem to grasp what they were told is indubitably wrong--so, so wrong.

Some people wouldn’t believe Earth were round if I threw a globe at their head; pulled up every web site dedicated to the science of Earth’s round circumference as well as having Christopher Columbus himself avow it's not flat from his grave.

I blame Wikipedia for everything. Someone sit’s at home changing information ever so slightly during the commercial breaks of Wheel of Fortune.

The funny thing is, it’s usually one friend (we’ll call her Karen) who can't believe anything you say, just one. You then have to ask yourself, what book is Karen reading or newscast is she watching? Where in the hell did she hear Regis Philbin was a woman and Pluto is an orbiting Altoid?

If there were several people claiming this propaganda—an instance you could actually contest the information—it would make logical sense; however, it’s just one person against my senior year knowledge.

I have given up on Karen. I never argue anymore; it gets me nowhere. Sometimes I forget Karen has these problems. Finding myself set up for imminent failure, I still have word vomit and continue to toss in my own jargon of what I know to be truth.

Saying “no, but the DNA test said he is the father,” gives me the chills.

Chiming in with her alleged Harvard graduate brain, she claims DNA tests have been proven irrevocably erroneous; something she read somewhere or heard from someone. Right.

When Karen is around, I stick to discussing surface things which are perceptible. You may hear us talking about grass because we are sitting on it and if need be, quickly I can pluck two blades to prove it’s green due to photosynthesis. Raising an eyebrow, she notes it is not photosynthesis, simply food coloring. You see? There is no triumph with Karen.

Regardless, whatever reason this personality type needs to be in the right so often, I would rather sew my head to a rug than have to argue another story. Nail polish remover is not another salient form of alcohol and candle wax cannot be used for eyebrows.

Bottom line, I never win. You may as well finish that sentence with: “I read it in The Onion.” At least that is reputable false information.

The Safe Place by the Little Fox

How often do you find yourself in awkward moments of silence after a conversation goes from a simple hello, to talking about a dentist visit the previous week?

Then you pause as you try to relate something to the persons distaste for new toothpaste used in the office but fail. You then realize for the past ten seconds all you thought about was what you're going to make for dinner.

Most likely, I won't remember dentist guy two years down the road, let alone two weeks; however, I will remember a woman who stops me for a dollar simply because she is covered in tattoo's, wearing a fanny pack and dragging a child with a teddy bear backpack leash behind her.

People who are good--let's face it--are not as interesting. And by good, I mean goes to bed by 11 on a work night, makes sack lunches daily and can honestly tell their dentist they floss twice a day.

Talking to someone who has been in the drunk tank two or three times or posted bail for an alleged assault against their boyfriend animates my mind much more than hearing about an engagement or bah mitzvah; those happen all the time (so does the boyfriend assault, but give or take, it’s entertaining).

I can either walk away from that person with an example of someone I never want to amount to while laughing at them--not with them of course--or a great story to pass on for generations and all my friends at work.

An article in Psychology Today said people who take risks have a much healthier approach to life.

"Misbehaving, or acting in ways we'd normally deem improper can be good for our souls," said Rebecca Webber. "It can boost our mood, leave us with a sense of liberation, get our creative juices flowing, and make for great memories."

Someone who continually does what they presume is right is not having nearly as much fun as Hector, the janitor, who parachuted off a bridge yesterday out of the blue, just because.

What great stories people have that live their lives in the moment; I never want to be someone who discusses how mundane the new fall programming is on ABC at dinner parties: yawn.

I want to share crazy, ridiculous stories until I die about things not everyone can experience: like when I was on the Muni one afternoon with a friend and it halted to a stop from 60 to zero in two seconds in the tunnel. What a sight the passengers were. I re-create that scene from time to time out of pure enjoyment.

Boring people also lead to prediction. I have some friends that I can forlay an entire conversation because I know exactly how they will begin and end a phone call. That is, my friends, how boring some of you are. Yes, you. I don’t enjoy already knowing what is going to come out of the mouths of most; I like to be surprised. I like to learn of new adventures to partake in or crazy ideas. I thrive in hearing ridiculous stories that seem unreal. I envy those who get no sleep in the name of fun; I try but often lose in the case of sanity.

I am not saying go out and get a Mike Tyson tattoo on your face. I'm only insisting driving somewhere other than home after clocking out at five. Monday through Friday doesn't have to be routine. Pulling out a dinner labeled “Tuesday,” when you get home means you’re in trouble. Now no one really wants to run into you boring man.

"The healthy approach to misbehavior, experts agree, is to occasionally break rules, norms, or expectations in ways that don't cause any serious harm," Webber said.

I guess if you really want great stories so you can write awesome books like O.J. Simpson, then go ahead and murder your wife because if I did it, I would surely tell. Otherwise stick to mixing in simpler things; stuff that keep my interest when I bump into you occasionally.

The fact that your cat needs insulin shots is not that intriguing. I can only talk about that for so long until my attention is diverted to an ant hill behind you; which says a whole lot about your day.

Cassandra Rhodin
I recently read this post from Rich Santos, a writer for Marie Claire, about what makes a guy creepy and it really got me thinking: Well, what makes a guy creepy? A term too habitually used by girls:

That outfit makes him look like a rapist: creepy.

His teeth are crooked: creepy.

He laughs at everything I say: creepy.

Admittedly, the term does get tossed around almost too nonchalantly; however, there are indeed things that can make many guys deserving of the title.

Being too touchy right away: Creepy. Maybe not every girl is as rude as I am, but I like a little mystery. Someone who is all over me in the beginning cries desperate and needy. I like to warm the kettle slowly, let the water boil, allow the heat to rise; need more examples? I don’t, however, like the splash zone. You know, you’re enjoying the show, then unexpectedly you are drenched, unprepared--no poncho--and your churro is soggy. No fun.

Making weird noises when you hug: high pitch screeches to match the intensity of your grasp is just plain creepy. If I wanted to hug a dog toy, I would.

Texting or calling every day while in a relationship is okay. Texting or calling every day when you are not is creepy. What happened to the "I need man-space, ego?" Unless I am seeing you seriously already, it’s not funny or cute to hear you just made yourself dinner and are now watching Family Guy out of the blue with nothing else to add to that statement. It makes me wonder if you have a life or any sense.

Drinking lite beer; man up you creep.

Talking about celebrity girls like you can actually get them. Yes, we all have our innocuous crushes. I have my very long list of men--and Megan Fox--that I would not mind spending a night with. Meeting you for the first time should not involve the top ten movies you think Jessica Biel looks good in. Unless you want me carrying around a picture of John Mayer in a silver locket while professing my undying love for him then leave the sinister fantasies at home.

Talking about yourself like you’re the best damn thing that ever happened to Earth: because you aren't. You did not major in awesomeness, no matter how many times you claim you did. You are not a black belt in kick-ass. Just stop while you are ahead or at least while you are moving at a speed of normalcy.

Smacking when you joke; not only is this annoying, but it is uncomfortable for everyone around. During the act, by the way, someone is going through a play-by-play of how much harder you smack behind closed doors. I don’t need social services contacting me nor do I need to be smacked every time you say "orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

Thinking you are compatible with someone based off their looks. It doesn't work like that for girls. We girls are all about personality and then look’s (well, we tell ourselves that). If I can't carry on a conversation with you about my interests in which you can relate to, my blonde hair or whatever you saw and liked will not make this last.

Standing awkwardly close from behind while I am talking to a group makes me wonder what you are doing back there. Can’t you just stand next to me or in the group itself? Chances are, when I back up and step on your K Swiss shoes, my drink is flying in the air and a slew of curse words will follow. Not how a lady should act.

Lastly, under any circumstance, do not ask a girl for a kiss because you think you deserve it. You don't deserve anything shy of the prize at the bottom of a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Unless you are in a relationship with the person, asking ruins anything you might have redeemed from prior rile behavior cowboy.

What is with people being so open with their personal lives over status updates? Whatever happened to privacy or for the sake of others: discrete detail?

Countless updates on my Facebook talk about break ups, fights, family ailments, etc. There is a time and a place for that, really, I do not understand why people are twittering hospital visits and posting pictures of themselves in labor.

This sort of attention is more like gawking than it is empathy. There is a high resemblance in a “celebrity voyeurism” sort of thing making Facebook like a tabloid. You can see who is friends with who now, who is dating who, who has gained weight, gone to rehab, graduated college, got married, knocked up, and died—dare I say it.

I’d personally prefer the public not knowing out about my boyfriends who commit third degree murder or my bra size. I like to keep some things personal.

I guess if you're prodding for this sort of attention, you’re getting it, right? You’re getting the satisfaction that lets you sleep at night. The kind of doting and coddling any princess or prince deserves.

You're getting countless comments saying: My goodness, what on earth is going on with you? What happened to your sister? Are you okay? Hang in there cupcake!

If it is just sympathy and commiseration you’d like, why not make life easier and send an e-vite to everyone to come over to your house for hard liquor and weeping. Better yet, go on Dr. Phil. You already have all 456 of your friends you claim to know reading about your personal life, why not let the rest of America and select countries get in on the action? Then you might, if you’re lucky, get balloons and letters in the mail. Talk about road to recovery.

Then there are those sneaky, cleverly idiotic updates that make you wonder. The ones that could mean nine different things; the ones that you ask yourself: Who died? Wait, no…it can’t be death, maybe he meant he got fired?

All because the update read: Bob Smith can’t live after what just happened.

Then, you gasp for air as your heart stops.

"This could be really, really, bad," you say to yourself.

I mean, if it is on Facebook, it is so serious.

Then a plethora of comments follow as Bob Smith never, ever, answers. Everyone is left at their keyboard impatiently waiting because they have to know what just happened to him. It will kill them. The Internet becomes a stir of rumors being spread. People begin to search through other comments and ask around. The clock ticks.

Cut to two days later he over zealously mentions something about rescuing a kitty cat from the pound and you really just want to delete him as a friend. Rude.

Regardless, lives are impersonal now. Everyone knows everything about everyone. Privacy is irrelevant and if you want it, good luck. You're going to have to move to a remote island, ex-communicate all who you know and still have to change your name.

The gym is a funny place. I can't take it seriously sometimes and almost wish it were legal to take pictures with my cell phone.

There are so many people all crammed into one place; all so different, surprisingly. Everyone thinks going to the gym is so intimidating: especially in Orange County, especially in Huntington Beach. I find no fear. Those who fear it fear themselves.

Taking notice of my surroundings, I looked around me tonight as I usually do while chaining myself begrudgingly to the treadmill. I hate jogging in front of the mirror because I would rather not loath my panting--rather someone else's--hence the looking around.

Tonight was no different than any other day, afternoon or evening. The usual crowd was there, I just actually noticed tonight that among me were small societies lurking around.

First you have the overzealous employee at the front desk who welcomes you so happily that he is one bottle of champagne and an oversized Publisher's Clearing House check of too much.

Walking through the gym I run into the typical BBB: Buffed, Beautiful and bitchin. Scratch the bitchin though. These are the men who have arms that do not touch their sides, are wearing tank tops that are completely open from arm pit to waist line. Have silly tattoos of barbed wire around their upper arms and make excruciating faces when they are lifting, probably, too much.

Then you have the girl who is a little uncomfortable with herself being that every time she sees another girl slightly thinner than her, she turns up her nose and completely shrivels in her presence. She then stops her work out either early and goes home or keeps her nose buried in her book never looking up again to save her ego.

Often times, you say to yourself:

"Okay, I see why you are uncomfortable working out next to, uh, Janice Dickinson over there."

Looking over, you see a woman wearing enough makeup for the entire season four crew of America's Next Top Model. Her breasts are bigger than her head, her skin is glowing orange and she is wearing clothes so tight they double as a second layer of skin. Yet, she still doesn't sweat; odd, but expected.

Next: the guy in jeans. Oh, this guy has no intention of ever buying workout clothes, in fact he has never seen the inside of a Big 5 Sporting Goods let alone the active wear section of Kohl’s. He is in his Levi's and crew neck tee shirt and getting himself a complete work out--sweat and all—lifting and biking. Hell, I bet he goes in the sauna fully clothed.

Then there is the guy who loves himself as well as talking himself up. This guy typically wear’s a collegiate tee shirt, baseball hat--backwards--and athletic shorts. He is usually running on the treadmill and usually, always, keeping eye contact with himself in the mirror in front of him. In fact, I occasionally see this type of breed mouthing to himself: "yeah, you got it, it’s all you big guy!"

Lastly: the elderly man, or woman (but usually man), who has no clue how to use any weight machine. This old man is too stubborn and set in his ways to ask for help; his wife Gladys probably signed him up for the gym to get him out of the house. So every day, he studies each weight machine as if it were a math problem. He watches others as they work out and ponders their intent of wanting to look so fit. He wonders why there is a guy working out in Levi's and why that guy wearing the FUCLA tee shirt is winking at himself in the mirror. He walks around the gym for about an hour and that is his workout. Membership well paid for.

Like I said, I can't help but laugh a little.



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