My space is NOT on MYSpace

I can not stand it anymore. I simply MUST rant about MySpace.

If you are a fan of that site you might want to just skip this.

I am freaking sick of MySpace.

All the young Runners and Clerks at the firm have a MySpace account. Many of Little Dog's friends have one. Lots of otherwise sane and mature people have one.

"It's a great networking tool!" (I can assure you that no corporation is going to recruit a major executive based on his or her MySpace profile.)

"It's a great way to meet people!" (So is showering and actually going out into the world.)

"I have a lot of 'friends' on MySpace!" (No, you do not. Friends are made through shared experiences, not via glitter messages.)

People, let me tell you. They LIE on MySpace. Never has it been so easy to lie to so many people. Photoshop allows you to be thinner or blonder or to have a bigger chest. The keyboard allows one to endow themselves with any virtue; any job title; any geographic location. The blog option allows you to create and to claim any number of experiences.

My friends? I know what they really look like. I know where they work because I have been there to pick them up for lunch. I know how they are doing because I call them.

I have nothing against the Internet. In fact, I think it is one of the most incredible resources available today. By virtue of this very blog I maintain my own net presence.


I do not need to check my profile views for validation. And if you are reading this right now you are most likely already my friend and just checking in to see what has inspired me to write.

My 16 year old nephew has a MySpace and my sister has never seen it. (I looked and he is a good boy sis.)

I have friends who expressly forbid their 13 year old daughter to have one. She did it anyway, and because they are involved parents they quickly found out. Rather than remove the page they had her make one last entry while they supervised. In it, she stated that she had set up the site against her parents wishes and that, by doing so, she had exhibited to them the very immaturity that led them to the decision in the first place. Therefore, she would not be posting any more. Oh, and they also had her go ahead and add a message to her friends explaining that she would not be available for phone calls or visits because she was currently grounded indefinitely.

Heh heh. I say kudos to them for holding her accountable.

Bojo took her laptop on vacation solely to be able to check (and post to) her MySpace account. I cannot imagine doing this myself.

For me, a vacation is to get away from the obligations. If you are in a new place for limited time, why waste precious time in front of a monitor? If you are making memories why not enjoy them...savour them..experience them - rather than condense them into daily blog updates.

And speaking of wasting time...

I can live a very happy and fulfilled life without daily glitter greetings...or stupid pictures...or seeing extremely large dicks or boobs. And I do quite well without bad grammar and spelling errors thankyouverymuch.

I am who I am. I am in no hurry to be older or more powerful or popular. I do not wish to be younger or more beautiful or more glorified.

And if I ever do? Then I will get a MySpace.


Save the Children! Collect the Whole Set!

Why on earth have we let children become fashion accessories?!

Angelina’s c-section scar is probably not even all scabbed over and already she is talking about how “they” are trying to decide what race and nationality “their” next child will be. (By “they” I guess she means Brad Pitt and the other kids, though I disagree that minors should have a full vote in their parents’ decision to reproduce.)

Give me a freaking break.

Oh sure, she is
Miss United Nations now and all about the children. Whatever. Newsflash Angelina: Babies are neither puppets, nor dolls, and they most certainly shouldn’t be shopped for. I do not care how loving you are or how much money you have or how politically correct you profess to be. You still should NOT be allowed to purchase children.

This is exactly what she is doing. Show me any average American single woman who would be approved to adopt an infant in 2001; then again in 2005; then, after giving birth in 2006, be approved yet again for an international adoption. You cannot. It would not happen for anyone else. But for Angelina it is the same as shopping for an Oscar gown. She does not have to go out and actually “shop.” Many vie for her business and will bring information and product to her home (or hotel room, whichever the case may be.) And when she does choose one? Fame and fortune to the designer who created it. She may even order one in every colour!

Wait. Am I talking about dresses or babies? And when discussing Angelina is there really any difference?

No sense in such a beautiful human as her having to sully themselves with normalcy huh? When Maddox turned out to be such a great accessory and hot topic for photos and interviews it only made sense to double the PR with Zahara.

Then, biology stepped in and like a brilliant merger between Bell and AT&T the Pitt-Jolie offspring was produced. Angels sang, woodland creatures gathered and photographers got rich. The public was rewarded with a new
Messiah – both literally and figuratively.

So why stop now?! That has to be the question on Angelina’s enormous lips! When she was into her “Goth” blood-drinking-Billy-Bob-tattoo phase she amassed tats at much the same rate. Therefore, we KNOW she throws herself wholeheartedly into her passions.

But what happens when the novelty wears off? When Mad and Z and all the rest are too big to carry, and therefore not such photo opportunities any more. When they are in their teens and
”not” looking like everyone else at school (or even in their own family) begins to be a problem. What happens when they want to know their culture and their history and their roots and they really do not want to have to schedule it around shooting schedules and visitation with dad and in between trips to all the other freaking countries mom decided to traffic children from What happens then?!

Remember people, she is not the paragon of traditional family values. She does not speak to her own father, nor is she married to her daughter’s father. She and Brad had procreated before the ink was even dry on his divorce decree. She, herself, is twice divorced, thus demonstrating a pretty serious disregard for the whole commitment thang.

She is merely a single rich American woman without a steady job.

Angelina is high on her own PR right now. Her acting skills are not that good, so she never quite achieved the high level of fame her recent
human trafficking has brought her. And one thing we, as Americans know, is that if one is good and two is better we must buy a dozen!

Angelina believes in saving the children. In fact, She wants to collect the whole set.


Grilled Cheese

I have been missing my mom a lot lately. She was always able to make everything better. All I ever had to do was call and tell her I needed her and she would be right there. Usually, her first solution to any ailment, be it the fever or flu; grief or exhaustion; was to “go lay down.”

What was great about this was that while you slept she whipped your daily life back into shape. She did the dishes. She folded the laundry. (The woman could fold anything you gave her into a perfect 10 X 10 square - even fitted sheets!) She would do the dishes, clean out your fridge and organize your pantry - all before bathing and feeding the kids.

Then, most importantly, she made you grilled cheese sandwiches.

Yup. Good old fashioned grilled cheese. White bread and American cheese. Perfectly grilled to a nice even tan. To this day I have never eaten a grilled cheese that came even close to comparing to my mom’s.

I think it was really all about just letting someone else be in charge for a while. I was only able to rest so well because I knew she was on the job. And believe me, nothing bad was gonna happen on her watch. Even if it did, she would have it all fixed before I woke up. She was just like that.

I could have shown up on my mom’s doorstep in the middle of the night and said, “I just killed a man,” and my mom would have shaken her head in only brief disappointment before she responded, “ Dammit! Let me get dressed and I’ll be right out to help you hide the body. If you must kill people I wish you’d at least do it at a reasonable hour.” Then she would grouse a bit as she gathered the appropriate tools for hiding a body.

Yeah, that is another thing. My mom always had the right tool for any job.  She had things in the garage that I never learned the purpose for.

She died almost 5 years ago and I still miss her like crazy. Lately I have had times where I have really needed one of those damned sandwiches. My laundry never gets folded, the dishes have water spots and my fridge currently has a pizza box balanced precariously on top of the milk carton, which is kind of stuck to the shelf with some sort of goo resembling spilled yogurt.

Is it any surprise that my life started falling apart proportionally to my mom’s mental health? As her Alzheimer’s progressed I spent much energy railing against the unfairness of it all and driving her to and from doctor’s appointments. What little energy I had left was used up trying to just hold myself together. RB moved out the same week my mom was admitted to the nursing home. I do not even remember which happened first.

All I know is that was the most difficult year of my life. I was defending my ability to parent my child while also saying goodbye to my mom. At one point RB even claimed that the time I was spending at the nursing home was subjecting my son to neglect. Meanwhile, mom had declined into an almost comatose state and my family kept hinting that I needed to be by her side more. In between all of this I was looking for my first job in almost a decade, visiting potential daycares and shuttling my kid to regular therapy appointments. I was also negotiating mom’s health care options, managing her accounts and feeding her cat. I was involved in two civil lawsuits in addition to the divorce. I was, quite simply, just barely holding it together.

That is the state I was in one Sunday afternoon when I went to the nursing home. Apparently the usual entourage of family members had scattered for lunch. It was once again just me and my mom. I found myself tearfully telling her how scared and how tired I was. The more I talked the more emotion came out. Of course she could not respond, but I knew what she would have said.

“You need to go lay down.” She would have said.

So I did.

I lowered the side rail to her hospital bed and climbed in. I curled up next to her with my head on her chest and for the next two hours we both let someone else be in charge. I drifted off comforted by her smell, by the smooth feel of her now paper thin skin and by the sound of her heartbeat against my ear.

When I woke up I did feel better.

Mom died two days later, but her final act, though one borne of her very inactivity, had been to give me one last rest on her watch. I consider that to have been an incredible and precious gift.