oopsie daisy

Plus, it's easier to pretend my co-workers don't know this place exists!

I went to instant message my manager yesterday and noticed that she'd added a link to her shiny new blog as her status message.

"Oh look!" I said, "You're totally pimping out your blog on the internal work IM. Nice!"

and then a moment later...

"I'd probably get in trouble with HR if I tried to do that with mine."

Guess she should've given me better Chistmas presents...

My mom just returned from three weeks of traveling throughout India.

I've decided that every time she brings the trip up, which believe me will be every time I talk to her for at least the next six months, I am going to nod and elaborate like I know *just* what she's talking about.

You know... because I saw "Slumdog Millionaire."

Jai Ho! I am brilliant!

To be fair: I hated playing it in gym class also.

Google announced yesterday that they are discontinuing the Dodgeball service, and to this I say: THANK FUCKING GOD.

Many of you probably aren't familiar with Dodgeball, a mobile social networking service that lets you share your location with friends via text message. And now that you know what it is, you're probably wondering why the hell anyone would ever use such a service. After all, we're grown-ups right? We don't need ALL of our friends to know where we are at any given time; rather, we like to focus on the people with whom we've made plans, enjoy the company of one or two, or maybe three other people. Right?

Yeah, uh, not-so-much in San Francisco. People here, for whatever reason, feel a bizarre need to broadcast where they are and who they're with constantly. This was facilitated by Dodgeball which would also include the address of their location and how many other Dodgeball users they were with. You might think you're enjoying your glass of wine with your BFF, but OMG, 15 other Dodgeball users are at Zeitgeist and they must be having the best time of their life. HURRY! Finish that wine. Let's get over there!!!!

In theory, Dodgeball is a decent idea. There are people who find re-living 6th grade and going to a movie with 14 of their closest friends to be enjoyable. Or people who want as many people around as possible on any given Friday night. For them, Dodgeball was a great tool. And I'm not going to lie, someone Twittered the other night that she was at a bar, and since I had no other plans and wanted to go out, I met up with her. But she was a close friend and I texted her first to make sure that was OK. Dodgeball would have also made this interaction possible.

Where Dodgeball went so horribly wrong, in my opinion (I had the word humble there, but then deleted it), is when people started using it for all the wrong reasons. A year or so ago, I had a friend who was dating a guy who then dated another friend of hers. Both of whom she was friends with on Dodgeball. Suddenly she was not using Dodgeball for its intended purpose, but rather to internet-stalk her ex and his new chick, the result of which just caused her pain and anxiety, rather than much-needed closure.

My other qualm with Dodgeball is that people use it to say where they are and basically ANYONE who has added them as a friend then feels he/she has the right to show up at that location. If you're having brunch with friends, what is the point of Dodgeballing where you are? Do you really want more people show up and make your wait for a table even longer? Are you just trying to let people know that you have a life? That you love pancakes? Why does everyone need to know where everyone else is at every moment in the day? Or if you're picnicking in the park with people you love, do you really want that girl who dates your ex to suddenly pop-in with homemade cupcakes and bed-head?

For me, the answer is clear. We put far too much information about ourselves on the internet, and I think we could all afford to take a step back and reassess what we put out there -- permanently -- that future employers, parents, exes, and strangers alike can access. Part of this, to me, is also making more time to live OFFLINE. Enjoy the brunch with your best friend and don't worry who knows about it. Have a picnic in the park with just a small group of close friends. Break up with someone and really end things. Don't check your Twitter stream when you're on a date. Go to the movies alone.

Connect by Disconnecting.

All of this being said, I do have one amazing story that would never have happened if not for Dodgeball. I was on a date with The Boy I'm Not Dating many months ago, and he Dodgeballed our location. Minutes later, who showed up? His stalker ex-girlfriend.

Fucking brilliant.

Though I am sure what they meant to say was "MILF."

Balboa Cafe sits in the heart of San Francisco's Cow Hollow neighborhood, a subset of Pacific Heights and also the neighborhood where I grew up. It's been around since 1913 and caters to 30-something yuppies and 70-something drunks alike. It's on the corner of an intersection that's been affectionately dubbed "The Triangle" by locals because there are bars on 3 of the 4 corners, and not-so-affectionately dubbed "The Herpes Triangle" by locals who've been unfortunate enough to get drunk and pick-up a skanky Marina cougar (and a little something extra) at last call. Oh right. That's the other thing about The Balboa--its infamous reputation for attracting cougars and the douchey striped-shirt boys they like to prey on.

But I've been eating at Balboa since I was a kid, drinking at Balboa since I was in college, and doing both simultaneously since I reached my late-twenties, and it has one of the best hamburgers in town, so I go there anyway...

Which brings me to my point. Or at least to the  first paragraph of my point:

Last Sunday, my friend and I were sipping on margaritas at Balboa waiting for a bar table to open up (young people in front, old people in back is the unspoken rule), and a guy swiveled his stool around to give me an incredibly disapproving up and down look. Twice.

"I'm sorry," I asked. "Have I done something to offend you?"

He gave me the full body up and down assessment again, smirked and then said, "You're at Balboa... Does that mean you're a cougar?"

I laughed and then kindly explained that technically I'd have to be hitting on a younger guy to be called a cougar and that I most certainly was NOT hitting on him, and then shrugged the whole thing off because I'm pretty sure I don't have any of the qualities that makes one a cougar. I'm not old. I don't wear a padded push-up bra or show off my cleavage. I'm not botoxed or lipo-ed. And I don't date eleven-teen-year olds. I am definitely NOT a cougar.

Although it seems the people who sent me this email the next day apparently disagree:

"Nancy Hayes Casting is casting a PCN Bank print ad.  We emailed you because they feel you are appropriate for the role of Mom."

And yes, Mom was in bold. And no, you assholes, I am not auditioning.

I am, however, making an appointment for botox.

And thus starts the vicious cycle...

Sometimes (fine ALL the time), it's like she doesn't know me at all...

Christmas Morning...

Mom: Instead of making the [delicious] breakfast casserole I usually make [and that you've been craving and dreaming of and is probably the only reason you even decided to show up to this hellish event we call Christmas], I thought we'd all make breakfast together!

Me: That's great. But you know... I don't cook.

Mom: Well you're REALLY going to regret that when your in-laws come over for brunch.

And after eating the breakfast scramble she made, I'm going to have to go ahead and assume that is why she never remarried. That, or the fact that she makes comments like the one above. Whichever.

*All words in brackets were added by me. Because you couldn't figure that out on your own.