Buckets'o'corn

I have been in Oklahoma City since December 18th, and I've hit a new milestone. Today, at 3:07 p.m. Central Time, I fnished off an entire bucket of popcorn. I'm talking about those buckets with the three different flavors: butter, cheese, and caramel. I ate it all myself. No help from my family or friends.

Here's to doubling my body weight in 2008! (Hey, that sorta rhymed...)

My whole life fit into 9 boxes and 2 suitcases

It's official. Besides the fact that I still have four more days in New York, I have moved all my belongings, with the exception of two suitcases and my laptop. I now finally feel like I'm actually moving, and I’m finally starting to have the moments of complete terror and sadness that I’m leaving have begun to sink in. Thoughts like “What in the hell were you thinking Porch? Sydney?! It’s on the other side of the fucking planet!” to “You do realize you’re never going to see some of these people again, right? What were you you thinking when you decided to move?!”

I think I have the habit of making things seem better than they are when I’m about to lose something. Think about it: When you get out of a semi-not great relationship, you start to remember JUST the good times. I did this once with someone when we ended our relationship, and years later, I’m just now remembering that things weren’t always perfect, but for the first couple of years after we broke up, you would think we had the most picture perfect relationship ever seen. I think that’s what I’m doing with New York. Six months ago, I was ready to leave. I wasn’t happy with my personal life, work was still good and something to look forward to, but overall, I felt like I wasn’t really accomplishing anything outside of my job. Now don’t get me wrong. I have come to realize that I love New York. This city offers so much that you can’t find anywhere else in the world. When I’m ready to come back to America, I can see myself coming back here. But at the moment, I feel as if I’m leaving a picture perfect life, which isn’t really the case.

I think part of this is that I’m struggling with saying goodbye to the people I care about here. I put a lot of emphasis on my personal relationships with my friends, so knowing that I won’t see some of them for a very, very long time is heartbreaking. And honestly, there are some of them that I might never see again. There is no way to easily rationalize this, hence the tears.

My going away party is on Saturday night, and I’m expecting a somewhat bittersweet event. It will be great to have everyone out for one last “hurrah,” but at the end of the night when folks start to head home, I’ll know that the goodbye we have then might be the last one we EVER have. Here’s to the next month of my life, probably one of the most difficult of my life…

Truf: The international music section in every record shop smells like farts AND why I love strangers who openly admit to me that they farted

It is a universal truth that every international music section in every music store you have ever visited in the entire world smells like farts. Don't ask me why, but it's true. I visited Barnes & Noble today trying to find a copy of a very old school 1980s movie on DVD and decided to swing through the music section. This truth was very evident, might I say.

Also, this morning on the L train into work, a man openly admitted to me and the crowd around the two of us that he had farted. I'm pretty certain everyone noticed the smell, but honestly - who would say anything? But apparently this man does not live by this rule. Very plainly, he said "That was me. Sorry, my wife made chili last night." Everyone kind of giggled, except for me. I shook the man's hand and introduced myself. I just met my new hero. And his name is Garry Cartledge of Brooklyn, New York.

You should ALWAYS carry a stick of butter in your purse/man bag.

I believe that a common trait these days amongst women my age is the inability to cook. Maybe it's a New York thing where one of the side effects of living in this city means small kitchens with no counter space and having an oven that may have been brought over on one of the first Dutch ships to land in New York. Ignoring the fact that I have no ability to make food outside of microwaving, boiling or toasting, I do enjoy watching Paula Deen's show on the Food Network. I can appreciate an overweight, recovering Southern agoraphobe - so sue me.

My favorite part about the show is not the recipe, but the fact that the Food Network gave a television program to a completely bat shit crazy woman. Why is she bat shit crazy you may ask? Well, here are my two reasons for this conclusion:

1. She talks to her dog and I sincerely believe she hears the dog talking back.

2. The woman ingests at least 4 full sticks of butter EVERY DAY.

Now don't get me wrong. The Paulinator (that's my loving nickname for her) is probably the best thing that has every been broadcast on extended cable. For one, she somehow been granted a free pass to say/do whatever the hell she feels like. Whenever a male guest is on her show, the Paulinator stops just short of slathering his male parts in toffee syrup and having a go. AND PEOPLE EAT THIS UP! I say if you can blatantly sexually harass someone and people applaud you for it, kudos to you.

As mentioned, one of the Paulinator's best qualities is her relationship with Bo Deen, her beloved pet dog. Here is a typical interaction between the Paulinator and Bo Deen (and please read the Paulinator's lines at about seven decibels louder than you normally would talk):

Paulinator: "What's that Bo Deen? You think we need some more whipped cream?"
Bo Deen: (Silence)
Paulinator: "Oh Bo Deen! You're so bad! But why not?! A little whipped cream ain't gonna hurt!"
Bo Deen: (Silence)
Paulinator: "Bo Deen, you're gonna make your momma fat!"
Bo Deen: (Licks himself, more silence)

I have a theory that if Bo Deen was a stick of butter, the Paulinator, despite her deep affection for the pet, would have eaten him about six years ago. Butter is Paula's kryptonite. Every recipe calls for double the normal amount of butter an average human being should/physically can consume. Eating a ham sandwich? Add a stick of butter! What's that? Just a plain salad? Hell no! Add a stick of butter! And why you're at it, mash up some butter in your infant's baby food - need to get them eatin' that butter. I think Paula's love for butter needs no more of an explanation than this: her recipe for deep fried butter balls. Yeah, you heard me. Take the fattiest thing ever created and make it even fattier. Why have a heart attack when you can actually make your heart explode? Here is the recipe:

2 sticks butter
2 ounces cream cheese
Salt and pepper
1 cup all-purpose flour
1 egg, beaten
1 cup seasoned bread crumbs
Peanut oil, for frying

Cream the butter, cream cheese, salt and pepper together with an electric mixer until smooth. Using a very small ice cream scoop, or melon baller, form 1-inch balls of butter mixture and arrange them on a parchment or waxed paper lined sheet pan. Freeze until solid. Coat the frozen balls in flour, egg, and then bread crumbs and freeze again until solid.

When ready to fry, preheat oil in a deep-fryer to 350 degrees F.

But, without a doubt, my favorite thing about the Paulinator is this: at her restaurant, every meal comes with her signature garlic cheese biscuit and one of her famous hoecakes. Now I ask - what is a hoecake? I can easily find the answer on Wikipedia, but I think the definition that is slowly forming in my own head is probably much better. Perhaps my Paulinator is slowly trying to kill me. Disguised by her down-home southern drawl and her jolly demeanor, perhaps, and for lack of a better word, she is attempting to butter me up only to deep fry me one day and have me as a special dish at her world famous buffet? The fact that I'm not at all frightened and just a tad bit excited that I could be served next to her award winning maccaroni and cheese says alot.

Appropriate or not: Can you ask someone if their friend is a tranny?

I recently came across some photos that include a friend of mine, and one of the other subjects included in the series of photos may or may not be a transvestite. Now, if you know me at all, you will know this is a question that will bother me for weeks on end unless I get an answer. Tranny? No tranny? Vajayjay or junk? Ack! I'm already unable to sleep!

Now here is my question: Can you ask someone that is somewhat of a friend if THEIR friend pictured is a tranny? What if this person is their love interest? What if the tranny/not tranny in question is their best friend? How do you begin a conversation that could lead to this question coming up naturally? Here are some of my ideas:

1. "I realized today that I'm so tired of having to sit down to pee. It just seems like an extra step. You know what I mean? Of course you don't - you're a dude. But...what about your friend so and so? What are he/she's thoughts on the subject...?"

2. "I ran into an old pal of mine and he's a tranny now! He does a mean Barbara Walters impression. Know anyone that might be interested? What about so and so?"

3. "Man, chicks with dicks are so admirable. I don't know how your friend so and so does it! Wait...I meant so and so...oh my, I've had WAY much to drink!"

I think all three give me a way out if I get no response because, as the case may be, the he/she at hand might actually be just a she. An unfortunately looking manly she, but a she none the less.

Feel free to leave suggestions on how to bridge this topic. The best one wins a prize (as yet to be determined by author).

Broken arms are like having a socially appropriate limp dick joke at the ready.

Last Thursday, I broke my arm. I wish I had an eyebrow raising story on how this happened, but the reality is that my tale is more of a mix of every first draft of a Woody Allen movie script ever written and hanging out with your grandma. This is how it happened:

I'm somewhat merrily leaving my annual optometrist appointment, learning that I don't need to change my eye glasses prescription (side note: why I was excited about this, I'm not too certain. Perhaps I'm either more easily excitable than I thought or possibly I have been suffering from a lack of excitement in my life.). It should be noted that my eyes were still slightly fuzzy from the eye drops my optometrist used during the exam, so the fact that I thought there was only one stair when in fact there were four stairs was not a huge mistake on my part. Also, the lobby was dimly lit, so there is a huge portion of society (mainly the over 70 or cataract-stricken crowd) that would have made the same faux pas. But alas, I went airborn and the next thing I know my chin is hitting the marble floor below and I'm somewhat dazed, but not dazed enough to where I couldn't manage to drop the f bomb a couple of times and roll over on my back. Besides the fact that my knees were already bruised and my wrist and chin hurt like hell, I wrote myself off as klutz and headed for the subway.

I noticed that the slightest nudge to my arm sent shockwaves into my body as my fellow passengers swayed with the flow of the moving subway car. But still, I thought, nothing is seriously hurt. By the time I got back to Williamsburg, I had decided that something was actually wrong with my arm, but at worst, it was a sprain. Then I tried to take my coat off. Now what can only be described as the most incredible pain you've ever felt but marginally better than what I imagine child birth to be like, I finally realized that my arm was seriously broken after trying to take my coat off. After successfully getting said coat off and realizing I could not properly extend my arm, I put said coat of painful death BACK on, called my roommate as I had no clue where a hospital was and after receiving his advice, headed back into the city to visit the Beth Israel Emergency Room on 1st Avenue and 16th Street. To make a long story short, I broke my arm at the radial head, which is just a fancy doctoral way of saying "Hey dumbass, you completely fucked your elbow."

For the past five days, I've had a splint and sling attached to my body. The sympathy was fun at first, but after you realize that going to the bathroom involves a 15 minute operation of knowing ahead of time that you have to pee so you have enough time to try to unbutton your jeans with only one hand AND THEN pull down your pants with only one hand, all the while trying not to jar your weak limb, you begin to think that the broken arm is the worst thing that has ever happened to you and must be punishment for calling that 10 year old girl on the show "Kid Nation" a cunt (She really IS a nasty bitch of a 10 year old! Watch the show once and you'll know what I mean!).

Yesterday, I had my first orthopedist appointment at Dr. Arscht's office in Union Square. One thing the receptionist doesn't tell you is that when you visit the office and are sitting in the waiting area, you have voluntarily entered the fourth circle of hell. Now I want you to imagine this: Think of every time you have ever gotten stuck behind an old person in line. It doesn't matter where - the movies, a fast food restaurant, a bank, where ever. Now think about how every action that is required of them takes at least 5 more minutes than it does anyone else on the planet. Also, I need you to envision how they ask questions about everything, even after being told for the hundredth time that yes, they can have a soda, but no, they have to fill up their cup themselves with the self-serve soda machine DIRECTLY behind them, and no, the soda machine is not over there it's OVER THERE, JUST TURN AROUND!. Now imagine taking those old people and giving them an injury that in some geriatric fantasy land means they can talk at a decibel normally reserved for sportscasters about how their bowel movements have never been the same since they broke X, Y, and Z. Now, I didn't go to medical school nor do I claim to be an expert in the field of human science, but I'm pretty confident when I say that a broken leg, elbow, hip, etc. DOES NOT effect your bowels and or their "movements." On the upside, I feel alot closer to Gloria of Bay Ridge, Brooklyn after over hearing the exact details of her bathroom habits for the past six months.

Lucklily for me, my diagnosis is better than Gloria's. To breeze over the subject, my bathroom habits remain unchanged (bonus!), and in even better news, I don't need cast. Now don't get me wrong, my arm is in a sad state of affairs but because the break involves the elbow, I must start physical therapy immediately to prevent a permanent loss of movement in my elbow. If you can see my sad, pathetically limp arm in person, you'll agree that you have seen better flexibility in your life. But hopefully, my crack team of physical therapists led by Esther will be able to get me in tip top shape again, or at least enough to where I can bend my arm without wincing. Also, expect a posting about me being hit by a bus in the coming weeks since I just dedicated an entire paragraph to ragging on old people.

The beginning of the end.

As much as I like to use this blog as a way to write about things I see in New York, I should mention that after three years in this great city, I'm trading up. As of January 5th, I will be the newest immigrant to Sydney, Australia. My company is transferring me, and for the foreseeable future, I will be acclimating to a lifestyle of 300 days of sunshine. But don't worry New York: If I ever move back to America, you are the place I'm coming back to.

So, the beginning of the end has begun. In other words, I've started packing. I'm going to document this experience as much as possible (depending more or less on my laziness at any given moment). I'm officially moving out of my Williamsburg, Brooklyn apartment on December 14th, but most of my stuff will be sold/shipped/thrown out before then. I've decided to post some photos of the de-evolution of my bedroom from a place I love to just another address I used to live at. This is where the hard part, emotionally speaking, of moving starts to kick in. Three weeks from today, I will no longer live in New York. That's proving to be more difficult to rationalize than I originally thought.

I know exciting things are waiting for me in Sydney, but New York is addictive and only people that have lived here for a significant portion of time know this. Right when you think you're ready to leave, this place sucks you back in with something amazing. In the end, you catch yourself digging your claws in trying to hold on as tight as possible to a place you love because it's home.

Cosmic Truth.

It is a cosmic truth that if you buy four bottles of salad dressing that you don't like (but bought because Ranch and Italian seem to be favorites for everyone else) for the company Thanksgiving potluck lunch, no one will open any of them. Then you will be left with four unopened bottles of shitty salad dressing. For all of time.

I waited almost one month on purpose...

It's been almost one month since I last posted. I did it on purpose...if you can call being tired, lazy, unmotivated and generally lacksidasical "on purpose."

There is something that caught my attention this morning, so the motivation is back...

Why do foreign men (i.e. not from the United States since that's where I live) use an inordinate amount of exclamation points when writing messages either via e-mail, message boards or text messages? I thought at first that this was a singular phenomenon wholly owned by my close friend's exboyfriend, Eamonn. The man could write a paragraph containing only three sentences but manage to use no fewer than 15 exclamation points. Below is an example of what I'm talking about (this was not actually written by him, but let's pretend that he was writing to me):

Him: "Hello Mary Ann!!!!!!!!!!! How are you?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: "What in the Hell..."
Him: "LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (and so on and so on.....)."

Imagine if he actually spoke like that? Are there such people that can't control the excited tone in their voice regardless of what they are talking about? If there are folks like that, I would like to meet them. I think I could appreciate how utterly ridiculous they must look every second of every day.

But back to my point of thinking this was singular mishap, that poor Eamonn was doomed to come across as the excited asshole at every social gathering or via every electronically-based correspondence he will or has ever sent. I recently came across a Facebook "Wall" comment posted on a good friend's page. He had actually posted the comment himself (perhaps he's not bright enough to learn the function of properly posting on a friend's page and not one's own, or perhaps I should stop calling him a retard because he is, in fact, a retard****). The context of the comment was not bothersome - just a typical fragmented sentence written by someone who I know for a fact is alot smarter than poorly formed sentences. It was the punctuation. As if wanting to take the exact opposite approach of say, a William Faulkner book, he used no fewer than three exclamation points at the end of every sentence. To help show how absurd this is, I have taken a passage from William Faulkner's classic novel The Sound and the Fury and changed all the punctuation (periods, question marks, etc.) to exclamation points. It helps give the situation some perspective:

"When the shadow of the sash appeared on the curtains it was between seven and eight o' clock and then I was in time again, hearing the watch!!! It was Grandfather's and when Father gave it to me he said I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire; it's rather excruciating-ly apt that you will use it to gain the reducto absurdum of all human experience which can fit your individual needs no better than it fitted his or his father's!!!!!!!!!!! I give it to you not that you may remember time, but that you might forget it now and then for a moment and not spend all your breath trying to conquer it!!!!!!!! Because no battle is ever won he said!!!!!!! They are not even fought!!!!!!!!!!!! The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair, and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools!!!!!!!!!! LOL!!!"

Fair enough, Faulkner's work did not include the "LOL" at the end, but I thought it was appropriate, given the situation.

So what's the deal? What's with the excited tone when I know for a fact that they don't actually speak that way. I know both these men aren't a jittery bunch of school girls laughing at everything and overstating every word that comes out of their mouths...well...at least Eamonn isn't...

*** I explicity told the person I am referencing here to NOT read my blog. Something feels weird about it. So if he is reading this, it servesr you right. Pig.

The Ear Muff Odyssey

One conclusion I came to at an early age was that I can not wear ear muffs. Let me rephrase: I SHOULD NOT wear ear muffs. I can physically wear them. It's not like I have some sort of deformed ear or head issue. It's just that when I put on a pair, I look like a retarded snow bunny. A retarded snow bunny that can only be seen in the midwest. Oddly enough, I am from the midwest and I don't acclimate well to extremely cold temperatures. I find this odd because I spend the greater part (and by "greater part" I mean the entire) summer bitching about the heat and how I love cold weather.

Despite the knowledge that two puffy pieces of fabric attached to the sides of my head is a horrible fashion mistake on my part, what did I do? I went out and dropped $50 on a pair of ear muffs, of course!

On the upside, I don't look as retarded as I did back in 2003 when I last tried on a pair of auditory muffs (that's what I'm calling them now). Plus, these auditory muffs are in a posh plaid pattern, so if worse comes to worse, I can fake my best Scottish accent and pretend that whomever just made fun of my auditory muffs is a total jerk because they not only made fun of what I was wearing but poked fun at my ancestral tartan. After typing that last sentence out and reading it out loud, I have since burned said auditory muffs and invested in a nice hat that can not be described by using a slang term for female parts.

Rooster = Jokes about Cock

I was just reading my little Blogger.com bio, and since I entered in my birthday the site automatically lists my Chinese calendar animal. As such, I was just reminded of how my sense of humor really hasn't changed since 1990.

I think I was in the third grade the first time my family took me to a Chinese restaurant. I distinctly remember the paper place mats that list out the animals that represent your birth year. I'd like to think that at the age of 8 years old, I wouldn't have spouted off some cock joke after learning that 1981 was the year of the Rooster. I'm sure I didn't make any comment on this level until at least high school (possibly middle school) (possibly the fourth grade). This blog doesn't really have a point except that according to the Chinese, I'm a cock. Enough said. I also have a long history of getting crappy/boring fortunes inside my fortune cookies. So apparently the Chinese hate me on multiple levels.

I'm infamous. Or was that un-famous. You be the judge.

This past weekend, I was referred to as the infamous Mary Ann. Apparently, my best friend is obsessed with me and has brought me up enough in conversations with her ner roommates enough to warrant this title. I would be creeped out, but I've known since the second grade that she's had a mega crush on me, so whatevs.

I've been called lots of things in my 26 years, but this is the first time "infamous" has been used. This got me to thinking: what have I done that would be considered worthy to include on my infamous resume? Well, I'm glad you're curious too because this is the list I've come up with:

1. In the fifth grade, at the age of 10, I raised the most money (I think it was around $700 or so) in my school's "Jump Rope for Heart" charity event. My secret? While all those sad bastard classmates of mine went around the neighborhood collecting pledges of measley coins, I went straight to the top. My elementary business savvy took me to all the local area banks, restaurants, and various local shops where people had corporate checking accounts. Overall, I probably put in about a tenth of the effort as the rest of my classmates, but guess who walked home with the grand prize of a Nintendo? Me. That's who. It should also be noted that I don't actually remember doing any jump roping at the event. I'm more of an ideas person really...annnnnnnnnnnd I was a fat kid. So sue me.

2. I once beat Emily A. in a farting contest in June 1999. It was the eve of my Germany/Austria trip, and we wanted a unique way to say goodbye. Suck it Ambruso! Victory was mine!

3. During my junior year of college, I successfully lobbed an egg out of a moving vehicle to hit my target of a second story apartment computer. You heard me right folks. Imagine this:
It's a cold, windy night in Lawrence, Kansas. I've got one thing on my mind, and that thing is revenge. I know my chances are slim, but I've never been one to back down from a challenge that involves petty vandalism and a sincere lack of maturity. As I'm driving, I lob an egg out of my driver's side window, over the car, and through the window of a second story apartment building. And where did this egg land? Right on the desktop keyboard. Now I'm not saying that I'm gifted in the skill of trajectory, but I am gifted in the skill of trajectory.

4. I can make up a five stanza song on cue. Seriously, tell me to sing and I'll give you a song you'll never forget. Some of my classics include "7up Up Up and Away with My Heart" and "Jeans, Jeans the Music Fruit."

5. I say "This is just like that Seinfeld episode" about 11 times a day, even when I know a situation is nothing like an episode of Seinfeld.

6. I use italics in my speech. It's a trick I do with my face. Ask me to show you the next time I see you.

7. I have never won a food eating contest, but yet I keep entering them. I'm not talking about the professional kind where some jack ass eats 394 hot dogs. I just dare my friends that I can eat, for example, more pancakes than them, even though I KNOW they can beat me. But I always THINK I'll win. It's called confidence folks. Completely mind blowing, retarded confidence.

8. In the summer of 2006, I made fleeting eye contact with James Iha of the Smashing Pumpkins while watching the band the Office at the Mercury Lounge. Two days later, I was walking down 2nd Avenue, and as I passsed the extremely over-rated Mexican food restaurant named Mary Ann's, who did I see eating a fajita on the patio of my namesake el restaurante? A Mr. James Iha! And what band was playing on my iPod as all this happened? The Office! This is totally like that scene in the animated version of The Lion King where the bear or lion or whatever it is holds thes baby bear/lion/donkey over its head and all the animals are singing some Elton John song. It was either "Benny and the Jets" or "Circle of Life." Either way, both are appropriate.

9. Even though I'm not a homosexual, I once out-gayed a gay man. You might think it's impossible, but let me tell you something: Reach for the stars.

10. During the summer of 2005, I ate no fewer than 12 Baskin Robbins ice cream cakes from the months of May to September. Not only did I not gain any weight, I managed to lose 7 pounds. Damn. Straight.

11. I once went as the Virgin Mary post birth to a costume party and was too lazy to wash the fake blood off my legs for two days. As a result, I completely avoid the church on 14th Street as its called the Church of Immaculate Conception. Now I don't really know what my religious views are, but I'm confident that someone somewhere would love to pull that little joke on me. I think the universal fear that I will produce the next Rosemary's Baby has prevented it thus far.

There are a few more things I could add to this list, but I feel this is sufficient. I don't even know if any of these topics came up in conversation and earned me the title of "infamous," but I'd like to think they played a small part.

Stay tuned for my next blog where I'll explore the mysteries of back fat and the Food Network's Paula Dean.

Update to first post!

This didn't happen on the subway, but this is related to people whispering about retarded stuff. I just went to Starbucks (shut up - I like a nice pumpkin spice latte every now and again - shut up again), and speaking of pumpkin spice lattes, I notice that people order them in a hushed tone. You would think they were ordering a jug of moonshine with a side of kiddie porn based on the way they quietly give their order to the cashier.

To sum up, Starbucks is like a porno shop - people are afraid to let anyone see what they are ACTUALLY buying.

Coffee + Cold Medicine / Lack of Motivation = First blog post.

I've been "blogging" on and off for about the past two years. These have taken various forms, mainly on my MySpace page*, but I figure I would make it official and dedicate an entire forum.

Welcome.

I would start off with something that I actually saw on the subway today, but I've got a cold. As such, the trip into work today was spent concentrating on trying NOT to barf on the passengers around me. So I guess my observation would be that fellow subway riders are pretty observant and seem to know when someone is trying to not puke on them. The looks I received were a fine blend of pity, "oh my god if she yacks, I'm going to yack" and "Why does this always happen to me?". Well, I didn't barf, but I managed to work up a healthy pre-vomit sweat.


* I've noticed that a lot of people have begun to whisper the name "MySpace," as if they are embarrassed to admit that they have a MySpace page. I guess this goes for all sorts of social networking sites. For example, please read the following script:

Me: So I heard your ex was dating that fat chick at TGI Friday's?
Anonymous friend: I know! I saw it (whispering) on his MySpace page.
Me: On his what?
Anonymous: (whispering) On his MySpace page.
Me: Why are you whispering? It's just MySpace.
Anonymous: (nods in a disgraced manner).

I can understand that checking out an exboyfriend's/exgirlfriend's MySpace page could be seen as the cyber equivalent of driving past their house to see if someone else's car is parked in their drive way (not that I've ever done that...shut up), but c'mon. The whole world is either on Facebook, MySpace, LinkedIn, etc. Also, I work in technology public relations, so I can fall back on the standard excuse of "I do it for work. Seriously, they make me."