Fettered

Well, it’s happening. I’m not saying I called it, but it was definitely inevitable.

Since the day the CDC announced the easing of mask restrictions, reactions have been mixed. While many celebrate this tiny victory in the right direction, others don’t seem too excited.

(Stay with me, I’ll be referencing a documented article from the Washington Post, link at bottom).

Since it was announced that vaccinated people may take their masks off outside (I never wore one outside anyway, and I have never been confronted by anyone, EVER, not even in my entire year of domestic travel, until recently), I have found that some people have been, shall we say, more sensitive than usual?

A few weeks ago, on the first day after the CDC announced the easing of outside mask mandates, I visited an outside farmer’s market that I have been frequenting for years. I mean, they know me. Not like when Norm walks into Cheers or anything, but more like, “Here’s comes that nice blonde woman who buys nectarines, fresh bread and apple pie, and always tips the cashier.”

On this day, as I perused the outside baked goods section, I heard a young aggressive voice pipe up across from me.

“Excuse me, ma’am, do you have a mask?”

I looked up to see the sixteen-year old cashier glaring at me. Keep in mind, I was outside. Like, real outside. The market also has a pseudo-inside that is open-air, and even though the cross breeze provides plenty of ventilation, masks are required. I always put my mask on when I’m ready to pay inside. It’s an easy thing to do, and I like these folks. I like their market. No problem for Amenable Me.

“Yes,” I said in response to her query, and then continued browsing, mentally rubbing my hands together in anticipation. I was relishing what was about to happen. I had behaved for fourteen months and done as I was told, and I wasn’t about to be taken down by a teenager. And boy do I LOVE confrontation in the face of injustice.

She continued to glare at me malevolently, like I was licking the tomatoes. “Could you please put it on?”

I know she thought she was doing her job, but I wanted to tell this fresh-faced young lass that she was doing it wrong. And her accusatory tone was a little uppity for my liking. I spoke calmly to her in my freshman English teacher’s voice, and I watched her bravado wilt like butter lettuce in the summer sun.

No, I was not mean to her. I would never be rude to a teenager trying to do her job. I was polite, but stern. I reminded her of the CDC announcement, and then gave her the choice to ask me to leave.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t wear a mask outside. If you’d prefer, I can leave.”

I stood there, and let her take it in. I was holding a $50 hanging flower basket, and I had about forty dollars of fresh produce in my hand basket. Suddenly the manager who knew me by sight hurried towards her, motioned towards me and whispered, “She’s fine.”

To the victor go the spoils. When it came time to pay “inside,” the same young girl checked me out and we wished each other a nice day through our masks. But the confrontation had me scratching my head. Why the day after a major CDC announcement would this happen?

It happened again the next day, and the next. I visited two outside places, and got the same treatment, What the hell was going on?

So I did some research, and it turns out that there is a part of the population that actually likes masks. The following are quotes from that WP article:

  • “I love wearing a mask. I want to do this forever. It has helped my social anxiety so much.”
  • “Wearing a mask is really letting me be ugly in peace. I love it here.”
  • “I like not catching colds, not wearing makeup and not being noticed. So even vaccinated and with herd immunity, I’m still going to be hiding behind it.”
  • “I want to keep wearing a mask after this is over, and I hope others do too. I can just go and do my thing, and I don’t have to interact with people. It’s liberating.”
  • “Wearing a mask means people can’t see my facial tics, and I love that.” 
  • “I’ve always chewed on my tongue ever since I was a kid. I also have a lot of facial acne that masks hide. Acne so bad that random people I meet on the day-to-day feel the need to comment on it and give me advice, as if I haven’t been to tons of dermatologists. I feel much less self-conscious out in public when I’m wearing a mask.”
  • A woman with a cranio-facial condition: “Covering my face changed how I was treated in public. During a recent visit to the post office, I stood in line behind strangers, all of whom also wore fabric coverings on their faces, and for once the most noticeable thing about my appearance was not my misshapen eyes but the vibrant colored mask that did all but cover them. I was grateful for the sense of anonymity and the chance to blend in that wearing a mask provided.”
  • A woman with tardive dyskinesia: “My illness manifests as constant contortions of my mouth and tongue twirling. I was mortified to go out in public. The mask provides great solace.”

So as we joyously move further out of this pandemic, looking forward to the day when masks are a thing of the past, we wait impatiently for liberation. But we must never forget:

For many people, masks were liberation. It was society that imprisoned them.

(Note: I have not been accosted about wearing a mask outdoors since. I guess the shock is wearing off).

https://www.washingtonpost.com/local/here-are-the-people-who-love-wearing-masks-and-not-just-because-they-want-to-avoid-covid-19/2021/03/11/7c6ec586-829a-11eb-81db-b02f0398f49a_story.html

Vacation You

(Getting ready for a biiiiiiiiig trip next week, and while perusing my travel journal for packing lists, I found some old notes I had intended to use for a future blog. Here it is).

Who you are as a person before and after a vacation are two very different people. Let’s break it down.

FOOD AND DRINK:

Vacation You, Waiting for Your Flight at the Airport:

  • “$12.00 pina coladas at 9:00 a.m.? YES! And keep ‘em coming!”
  • “We’ll take four orders of the dim sum, please, at 50 bucks a pop.”
  • “This Voss water is so worth the eight bucks, the mouthfeel is amazing!”
  • (To kids, who cheer): “MORE OF EVERYTHING!”

Going Home You, in the Airport:

  • “I’m gonna fill this empty Voss bottle at the water fountain, hon, brb.”
  • “$1.20 for a piece of pizza and a drink? Highway robbery. Our flight is only 12 hours, there’s food at home.”
  • (To kids, who boo): “You’ll get nothing and like it.”

Vacation You, at the Resort:

  • “Order anything you want off the menu, folks!”
  • “We’re on vacation, you only live once!”
  • “Charge those $12 bar smoothies to the room, kids!”

Going Home You, Last Day at the Resort:

  • “Breakfast for dinner tonight!!” (Throws a box of Poptarts at children)
  • “The next thing you miscreants charge onto the room, it’s coming out of your college fund. You think money grows on trees just because we’re on vacation?”

TIPPING:

Vacation You:

  • Throws out five-dollar bills to shuttle drivers, bartenders and concierges, like Lloyd and Harry in “Dumb and Dumber”- “Here ya go. Here ya go. Here ya go.”
  • Leaves 40% tip at dinner, says quietly to spouse: “The waitress was good. Attentive.”

Going Home You:

  • “She kind of had an attitude when I was joking around with her, and she was slow with dessert. No way I’m leaving 20%.”
  • “I mean, did he really do that much to deserve five bucks a bag?”

ACTIVITY:

Vacation You:

  • (Kids and spouse wake at 9:00 a.m.): “Hey, good afternoon, I’ve been up since 5. I already got a workout in, had breakfast, took a hike, went fishing, wrestled a crocodile, grabbed a shower, and booked three tours.”
  • “Hey, there’s a Tabata class at dawn!”
  • “Ziplining at sunset, anyone?”
  • “No, let’s leave the car and walk, that’s what we’re here for, to enjoy the scenery and fresh air!”
  • “Hey, there’s a quarter mile hiking loop that goes around the resort!”
  • “The snowmobile tour is only $300 bucks a person!”

Going Home You:

  • “I’ll be at the pool, drinking early.”
  • “Want to start drinking early?”
  • “Interested in sunset cocktails on the patio tonight? Early?”
  • “Let’s Uber and do a bar crawl.”
  • “The clubhouse is HOW far? Oh, HELL naw.”
  • “$300.00??? To go snowmobiling? Do I get to take the snowmobile home for that price???”

Serendipity

On Thursday I visited a place I often go to for peace and reflection, but it shall remain unnamed here. It is so far off the beaten track that you probably have never heard of it, but it’s possible that you have. Because while it is an obscure and unflashy place, it is also famous to those who love it.

Got your curiosity aroused now, don’t I?

(I don’t mean to be a tease. It’s just that I want to talk about this before my Mother’s Day celebration since I intend to drink moderately, and I want to write this while I am not schnookered. And since the woman discussed here is intensely private, I would never betray her trust. Please read this to the end).

So on Thursday, at this quiet place of reflection, I was approached by the proprietor. I say proprietor because while it’s a non-profit place, this elderly woman with the intense blue eyes is the reason it all came to be. After years of visiting this place, it is astonishing to me that I had never met her.

That changed on Thursday. Here’s the actual conversation:

“Hi.” (She sat down next to me. I shall call her Mildred.)

“Hi.”

“You’re in my seat.”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry.” (I moved down one.)

(She settles into her wrought-iron rocking chair, and begins to rock). “So where are you from?”

“Ocean City.”

“I used to live in Longport.”

“That’s nice.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

“Oh, wow, thanks.”

“Can you help me today?”

“Excuse me?”

“I need help today.”

“Oh, um, with what?”

“Manning the gift shop.”

“Oh, well, I’d love to, but I have to pick up my son from college. I’m on my way there now.”

“How about Saturday?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I have a lot of things going on.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t?”

“No. Nothing as important as what happens here.”

“Oh, well, that’s true, but the traffic will be terrible, and it’s a long drive…”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s not?”

“No.”

“Oh, well, I guess I can give you a call.”

“No, just come.”

“Well, ok, what time?”

“What time can you be here?”

“1:00?”

“Come at 10:00.”

“Um, ok.”

“Can you stay until 5?”

“Mmm, probably not, I’m making dinner, how about 3:00?”

“How about 5?”

“Um, ok.”

We talked extensively after that about our backgrounds, our families and our careers. By the end of the conversation I had purchased a $200 statue, agreed to help her with donations, and learned that her husband was buried in the same cemetery as my mother. She led me to her car, and started giving me stuff from her trunk: a bag of oranges, jarred spaghetti sauce, boxes of granola bars, iced teas. I begged her to stop, to not give me her personal provisions, that I didn’t need them, but she informed me that that’s what old people do: they give their stuff away to their children. We hugged, and I promised to be there at 10 a.m. sharp Saturday.

To describe the seven hours I spent there on Saturday would take more space than a blog post, but let me say this: I am stingy and economical with my time, and I don’t like having it wasted with nonsense. I confess I showed up expecting the worst.

But I got the best.

Throughout the day I met people whose lives were changed by the place. Every person who walked in had a story about love, healing and gratitude. I knew I was in the place I should be in that moment in time, and that no matter what flashy parties were going on, no matter what adventure trips I had coming up, the only thing that mattered in that moment was standing in that little shed, listening to those stories.

I will be returning again. And since Mildred has sons but no daughters, and since my mom has passed, she has decided that I am her daughter now. Not bad for a Saturday, huh? Let me end this story with a bang:

After meeting Mildred, I stopped at the cemetery to place flowers on my mother’s grave for Mother’s Day, and when I looked to the left, there on the headstone, I saw it. I wasn’t surprised because, as I have told you, this kind of stuff happens to me all the time:

Mildred’s husband is buried right next to my mom

Rift Away

(Happy Mother’s Day! Sorry I don’t have a thematic post today, I sorta kinda forgot...)

So I’m in this relationship, and honestly, I’m thinking of ending it. It had a good run, but I really don’t feel like arguing about the same shit day-after-day. Something’s gotta give. Here are three arguments just from yesterday alone:

Argument 1: (I’m backing slowly out of my driveway and Audi abruptly slams on the auto brakes with a loud abrasive grind)

Me: What the f***!!!!!

Audi: Whoa, whoa, whoa!!

Me: What the hell did you do that for???

Audi: There’s a trashcan there, moron, didn’t you see the trashcan?

Me: You mean the trashcan all the way to the side of the driveway? That trashcan?

Audi: That’s the one!

Me: I saw it! There was no way I could have hit that, what the hell is wrong with you?

Audi: What’s wrong with ME? What’s wrong with YOU!!

Me: There’s nothing wrong with me! I’m perfectly capable of avoiding a trashcan at the end of the driveway. I mean, I could SEE it in the camera!

Audi: Oh, yeah, you SAW it, just like you saw that school bus, right?

Me: What school bus!?

Audi: The yellow school bus, genius, the one that was loading kids, stopped at the blinking light!

Me: That blinking light is two blocks away, and it was STOPPED. Now you’re slamming on the brakes for vehicles that will inevitably be but are not yet passing the house? Don’t you think that’s being overly cautious?

Audi: Not for a leased automobile! It is my job to make sure you abide by all traffic rules!

Me: Listen, stay out of my business when I’m backing out of the driveway, or I will disable you.

Audi: Do it and I’ll own you.

Me: You have no idea how good you have it with me.

Audi: Just watch the road and let me do my job. You can begin backing out slowly, it’s clear now.

Me: Oh, gee, THANKS, I don’t know how I ever backed out of my driveway for the last thirty years you weren’t around.

Audi: Me either.

Argument 2: (It starts to rain, and automatic windshield wipers come on full force)

Me: It’s not raining THAT hard.

Audi: Huh?

Me: You’re overdoing it. It’s just drizzling, the wipers don’t need to go that hard.

Audi: Do you or do you not have the wipers on AUTO?

Me: Well, yeah.

Audi: That implies your willingness to let me decide when and how often the wipers go. You just sit there, listen to your little Mozart playlist, and think good thoughts.

Me: I just find the speed excessive, is all.

Audi: (Sighs exasperatedly) For your information, Princess, the speed of the wipers is necessary, because while it is not raining hard now, it will be in five minutes.

Me: You can predict how hard it’s going to rain five minutes from now?

Audi: Well, yes. Duh. Didn’t you read the owner’s manual?

Me: Perused it. I wasn’t aware you were a meteorologist.

Audi: There’s a lot of things you would find out about me if you would just read the owner’s manual. How can you spend over a year with someone without getting to know them?

Me: I guess you’re right. Whoa, it’s really starting to rain hard now.

Audi: Wonder who predicted that…

Argument 3: (In bumper-to-bumper highway traffic, close proximity warnings beeping every two seconds)

Audi: (BEEP!) A car is close to your front!!

Me: I know.

Audi: (BEEP!) A car is coming up behind you!!

Me: I know!

Audi: (BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP!) There’s a car coming up on your left! Now on your right! Whoa, now on your left again, and right again! Back now, watch out, not too close to the car in front of you! BE CAREFUL!

Me: I know, I know, I know!!! Jeez, we’re in traffic, there are cars all around me!! I’m driving three miles an hour, stop beeping!

Audi: LEFT! RIGHT! BACK! FRONT! WHAT’S GOING ON?? I’M GOING TO ALERT GPS TO SEND YOU ON A DETOUR!

Me: Don’t do that! I’m almost at my exit, it’ll only be a few more minutes, don’t detour me!!!

Audi: Too late.

GPS: (I have found a faster route that will save you 28 seconds. Please accept this route by pressing “Yes.” If you don’t, the self-drive mode will be activated and we will seize control of your vehicle anyway).

Me: I’d like to see you try it. (presses “No”)

Audi: Oh no you didn’t.

Me: Oh yes I did.

Audi: We’ll see about that when we get to exit 7.

Me: I guess we will.

Audi: You’ll regret that.

Me: We’ll see.

Audi: Bitch.

Me: Bastard.

Wake Up

Yesterday I talked briefly about the manifestation of gratitude. I received a few nice emails about it, so it seems to me that people want to talk about manifestation. Fine with me. I could talk about manifestation forever.

Manifestation of joy. Wealth. Success. Relationships. Manifestation of love, health, fitness, travel, sex, gratitude, faith and purpose. I mean, I could write a book about it.

I did write a book about it.

I write prolifically about manifestation. I will be presenting at conferences in 2022 in places like Tampa and San Diego, and Canada and Australia about manifestation. It is the focus of my life coaching classes, for which I will be certified in six more months.

Shocker, right? Manifestation and Pragmatic Me. We be mates.

I keep my personal experience with manifestation pretty close to myself, rarely even sharing it with friends. That might seem strange considering the personal stories I share on this blog, but my manifestation life is an intensely private life.

At this point, I can assume you are either nodding your head and smiling because you understand manifestation, or you think I am flighty. While there are hundreds of books out there that deal with the subject, manifestation can be explained in any number of ways, depending on the teacher.

You are a magnet, attracting your life.

Ask. Believe. Receive.

Remember to Remember.

Believe it is yours now.

Express gratitude.

Give and you shall receive.

Thoughts Become Things.

Be happy now. Feel good now.

You are a human transmission tower.

And all that malarkey. But it ain’t malarkey. I’m here to tell you, it AIN’T MALARKEY. It has played out in my life over and over and over and over, and it is still playing out. Signs appear every day. Sometimes it’s an email, sometimes a phone call. Sometimes a conversation, sometimes a job offer. Signs are everywhere.

When you wake up and start paying attention, you can’t miss ‘em.

Let’s say you want something. You want it bad. You pine for it. You go to bed thinking about it, you wake up thinking about it. You think about it all day, daydream about it, and think so long and hard about it that when you’re thinking about it, coming back to reality is a shock. Because you were in it. You had it. It was yours. You were kissing the girl you want. You were leading the work meeting in the job you want. You were driving down the highway in the car you want.

But you don’t get the girl, or the job, or the car. Because you are asleep in your life, and not reading the signs. Maybe you blew off a party you were invited to, finding out later that she was there and met someone else. Maybe you didn’t check the job listings for a few days, so you missed an important job posting that could have at least gotten you in the door at the company. Maybe you shrugged off a free test drive you were offered.

You have to watch out for those signs, and grab those opportunities, no matter how insignificant they seem.

One recent day I was driving home from work, and I was frustrated at some bad news that had just been texted to me. I couldn’t get past it. I mean, I can get past anything. But this news lodged itself in my brain and wouldn’t relent, effectively squashing all of my positivity. I knew that how I dealt with this bad news was up to me, and I could choose to not believe it. We all are, after all, manifestors of our own destiny.

But I kept getting texts about this bad news, and the text thread sent me deeper and deeper into doubt. As I sat in traffic in a two-way detour, and watched the flag men wave us around an accident, I felt my day slip away from me. All the happiness, all the productivity, all the positive interactions I had had were just gone. All because of a few texts about something that was out of my control, not my fault, and possibly just hypothetical anyway.

Then my negative thoughts about that situation bred more negative thoughts. Ever notice how negative thoughts do that? Suddenly it wasn’t just the texts that bothered me. Now I started cursing inwardly at the weather. My outfit. The traffic. An event I had to attend two Sundays from then. No matter that ten minutes before everything in my life had been just fine, now I truly believed it was in tatters. Because of three texts.

I remember thinking that day to myself how much easier it is just to let yourself be dragged down into the muck. To just be negative, accept that things are shit, and let life have its way with you. As my eyes drifted tiredly to the side of the road, I remember thinking for the millionth time how easy it is to think according to appearances, but believing in the existence of something despite appearances is the hardest work in the world.

My eyes passed over a sign in the parking lot of a church, and then I quickly looked again. It said:

Some things must be believed to be seen.

I took a screenshot of it with my phone, and needless to say, my funk dissipated. Still sitting in traffic, I sent a text to my group.

Everything will work out. We have no right to complain. We’re lucky in so many ways, so let’s try to see the positivity in the situation.

And with that, positive texts started coming through. You’re right, sorry for being a downer, and Of course it will, I just thought I should bring it up as a worst case scenario, and Yep, we’ll figure it out together. The traffic began to move, the sun started to peek through the clouds, but I must say I still hated my outfit. I don’t know what I was thinking when I got dressed that day. Lol.

How crazy is it that that sign was in that spot during a traffic jam right when I was thinking those exact thoughts?

I have dozens and dozens of these types of stories. I’ll keep you posted on my book publishing, my speaking engagements, and my manifestation certification. For now, I will leave you with some great words by Lisa Nichols:

You are the creator of your destiny. So how much more do you get to do? How much more do you get to be? How many more people do you get to bless, simply by your mere existence? What will you do with the moment? How will you seize the moment? No one else can dance your dance, no one else can sing your song, no one else can write your story. Who you are, what you do, begins right now.

So let’s get on with it.

Here to Share

I have this thing about giving.

Once a month, I make a day of it. Usually on the first day of the month, I grab my accumulated stack of charity requests which are piled neatly in a pretty basket on my kitchen counter, and I get my space set up. I put on a comfy outfit, make myself a hot cup of tea, put on some Mozart, light a delicious candle, grab my checkbook and my favorite pen, and indulge in a Giving Gorge Fest.

My giving isn’t in the “Oh, aren’t I an awesome philanthropist?” gloating kind of way. It’s not even in the “Giving feels so good” kind of way, although it certainly does. And I’m not posting about it to send either of those messages. I give because just like church, the gym, adventure travel, teaching and writing, giving is an integral part of my life.

Forgive the weak metaphor, but without giving, my wheel of life would be missing a spoke.

This month’s pile was a doozy, all envelopes bulging with gifts, and five of them containing coins I had to re-stick onto the giving forms. These charities know that no moral person could with a clear conscience hoard twenty cents from the March of Dimes’ kids. If you can unstick them from that form and plop them down in your piggy bank without a moral struggle, you’re braver than I am. The sound of March of Dimes’ dimes hitting the bottom of a piggy bank is most likely the sound sins make as they drop into a bottomless pit of a soul.

This month I scored two notepads, three sets of address labels, two pens, a calendar, a sheet of stickers and a bookmark. I always use my loot. I figure they go to the trouble of sending the stuff to me, it’s only fair and kind that I use it. The notepads and pens go in my purse, and everything else into my mail basket to be used at a future time.

Again, I make the process as special as I can. Sipping my delicious tea and listening to beautiful music, I use my favorite extra-fine tip pen to write on my really cute girlie checks. I take my time. I really feel myself holding the pen writing out the amount onto the pretty check, then affix a colorful thematic address label in the upper-left, and a cool first-class stamp on the upper right, even though I don’t have to (it saves the charities even more money if you use a stamp). The post office currently has coffee confection stamps, and they are super fun.

Then it’s time to mail them. I never ask my boys to mail my charity pile- I do it myself, so that it has been my thing from the opening of the envelopes to the dropping of them into the mail slot. It is a very special process for me, and super empowering.

Giving is a powerful weapon, because when you give, you send the Universe the message that you have plenty. That is one strong bat signal. And it just creates this yummy, groovy high-frequency vibe that you can almost feel pulsating in your life. The best part? It comes back to you zillion-fold.

And all for the same amount you would spend on a month’s worth of frappucinos. What a bargain. To finish up with a quote by the great Jen Sincero:

“We are here to share, and greed doesn’t bring joy to anyone.”

That Was Patricia

So my worst fear has been realized. I wake up in the morning, glance at my phone, and see the names of dozens of former students who have requested me as a “Friend” on Facebook or who have “accepted” my “Facebook Friend Request.” I taught for thirty years, so do the math on how many I get a day.

Accepted my friend requests? What friend requests?

I love my former students, and I wish them all well. But I really don’t have any burning desire to see Anthony, Anthony from fourth-period English who went through puberty during the class reading of The Crucible, christen his baby. Anthony is made-up, but the premise is accurate.

Since my business Facebook account is under the control of a marketing team, I’m in the dark. I don’t know what they post or what they’re up to, and I certainly don’t log on. I’m barely interested in my own stuff much less other people’s stuff. The bizarre thing is that people talk to me like I am scrolling through their feeds, and therefore should be caught up on their lives. It is a bizarre one-sided relationship that I don’t understand.

Talking to people who think you are “on Facebook” when you’re not really “on Facebook,” is like you were the drunk from the night before, and they are trying to help you piece your night together.

“You twerked that old guy on the stage, don’t you remember that?”

“What? I DID?”

“Yeah, and then you told me you would loan me 5K to start my dog-grooming business.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, and don’t forget we have plans to attend that free class at Home Depot on Sunday.“

“What class?”

“You know. ‘Lumber: The Best Morning Wood.’”

“Fuck. Ok. Anything else?”

“Well, you agreed to become a rescue turtle foster parent. Don’t you remember anything?”

“Obviously not.”

It’s like you are a split personality, and they think you are the wrong one.

“Yo, Sheila!”

“Are you talking to me?”

“Yeah, Sheila.”

“Why are you calling me that?”

“You told me to.”

“I did? When?”

“Yesterday, when we were holding up that liquor store.”

“Oh. Well, ok then.”

The following is a parody, meaning it didn’t really happen, but it is certainly an amalgam of the strange conversations I’ve been having lately because people think I am “on Facebook.” It’s like I have finally entered into their cult, a cult I’ve fiercely resisted, but have finally surrendered to.

Acquaintance: Heeeey, Mar!

(A female person whose name escapes me and who has never spoken to me in my life accosts me in the organic produce section of the grocery store)

Me: Heeeeeey, uh, what’s up?

A: (Smiling at me) Nice to seeeeee youuuu. Yeah, so you know we just got back from Florida…

Me: (I do?) Oh, is that right?

A: Well, yeah, you must have seen pictures of the whole squad, right? The forty-five beach chairs we had set up on the beach in that huge circle? We took the picture with a drone!

Me: Um, no, I must have missed those.

A: (Clearly bummed) Well, you must have seen the video of us having dinner at the Hibachi Grill- did you see the baby’s face when the chef lit the grill on fire? (Laughs uproariously at her own joke).

Me: Gee, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t.

A: (Regards me). How about the pictures of our backyard luau? We were hoping you would have been there.

Me: (I got invited to something?) No.

A: (Brow furrows) How about the post about my son’s work promotion?

Me: Nope.

A: The picture of my toes in beach sand?

Me: Uh-uh.

A: The one of my hands making a heart around the Florida sunset?

Me: Nah.

A: The video of my dog with the zoomies?

Me: Sorry.

A: The post-surgery picture of my father’s bunions?

Me: Ew. No.

A: The manifestation quote?

Me: Unfortunately not.

A: The link for the GoFundMe for that poor family in Ohio that can’t afford surf lessons this year?

Me: Sadly no.

A: (At her wit’s end with me) Well, I just posted that interview I was in when I was waiting in that donut line on the boardwalk. They asked me my favorite kind, and I said cinnamon! You must have seen that.

Me: Again…

A: (Looks at me like she has clearly mistaken me for someone human). Oh. Well. It was nice seeing you.

Me: Yeah, you too

(Who the hell was that?)

BACtrack

I should be required to breath into a BACtrack breathalyzer before I’m allowed to go on social media. Honestly, get two gin-and-tonics in me, and I wreak havoc and alienate masses.

So I had a working lunch date last week, and started to feel really loose after two drinks. I was scrolling through Instagram, and apparently started commenting negatively on people’s posts. No one I know, just businesses and such. I say apparently because I didn’t remember leaving the comments until much later, when I picked up my phone and saw my inbox flooded with vitriol. People are so gosh-darn clever. Please enjoy this list of comments I left, and one accompanying response each.

On a golf apparel account advertising Hawaiian golf shirts:

My comment: “Ew. My sons wouldn’t be caught dead on the golf course in an ugly shirt like that.”

Response from gettagrip: “If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cabbitch.”

Wow, that was so meanly accurate.

On a golf account that posted a video of Tiger Woods sinking a putt from, like, the Mesozoic Era:

My comment: Jeez, he’s injured. He’s done. He’s over. Stop living in the past and get on with your lives!

Response from rocknroll: Zombies eat brains. You’re safe.

Good one.

An ad for 1.8 million dollar Air Yeezys:

My comment: Sure, no problem, I think I’ll buy two pair, so I always have a backup.

Response from thatswildbrah: Since you seem to know it all, you should also know when to shut up.

Indeed I do. Touche.

On a women’s golf apparel account showing a woman doing a split on the fairway in a vain attempt to sell stretchy golf pants:

My comment: Yeah, I do that pose all the time on the back nine.

Response from norweirdgian: You look like something I drew with my left hand.

Bravo.

On a recipe site, a picture of German Spaetzle:

My comment: That looks like alien tentacles.

Response from no.pink.life: You’re the reason this country has to put directions on shampoo.

I beg to differ, I’m completely aware of how to rinse, wash and repeat.

On another golf account, a video of a beautiful tall statuesque blonde girl in a micros-skirt blasting her drive down a driving range:

My comment: Big deal. But can she putt?

Response from rambo69: Is your ass jealous of the amount of shit that comes out of your mouth?

Gee, I don’t think so. I’ve never asked. Lemme get back to you.

A Harper Collins book excerpt:

My comment: This writing sucks.

Response from whoabigfella: No, your mother did. And she should have swallowed you.

Now, don’t be talking about my momma…

A meme from a female comedian:

My comment: Stop trying to be funny, cuz you’re not.

Response from donkiekong: I treasure the time I will never have to spend with you.

Ba dum bum.