Snarky Facebook Thoughts

I would rather not be tagged than tagged in a photo you took of me. If it’s an uggo photo, I’m going to untag it to because I am super vain. And probably so are you, because you post photos on Facebook.

I probably only comment on the statuses of the same eight to ten people.

If you post something obnoxiously religious and/or racist, I’ll probably never forget you did, no matter how much I want to.

The word “hubby” is stupid.

I don’t look too closely at people’s names when I read my news feed and often get people mixed up. If your name is Jessica you better hope I don’t have another friend named Jessica with your same last initial. This leads to confusing thoughts like, “When did this person have a kid?”

The same goes for people with very similar, tiny profile pictures.

I  don’t care THAT much about your babies or their poop…

…Unless it’s my niece. And even then I’d be wary about the poop thing. Luckily my brother and sister-in-law spare their Facebook friends.

STATUSES IN ALL CAPS ARE SUPER ANNOYING unless they are done so ironically.

Your profile picture should be of yourself, not your dog/infant/inanimate object. Otherwise, between that and your married name, how will I be able to realize I went to high school with you and reject your friend request? Not helpful, guys. Just saying.

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Become a fan of “The Candidate”

We’re beginning to roll out our social media strategy for the web series! Click here to become a fan of the Facebook page for The Candidate. Personal pages for Mike Mowry and John Cunningham to come soon. This week we’re filming our campaign ads for John Cunningham and Mike Mowry, aka, John and Aryeh, respectively. Aryeh’s going first tomorrow night, which will be fun because I have yet to write a word of any of these ads and I have no idea where we’re filming. It was kind of a crazy weekend and I didn’t get as much done as I had planned. I did, however, edit three more minutes of the show, chalking up our total to twelve, that’s right, twelve minutes of content edited. Too bad I have to start over. But it’s of my own volition! I’ve decided to invest in Final Cut Express, a better editing software and something like a step down from what the industry standard is. We have some lower dialogue audio that I want to be able to edit more extensively than I can in iMovie and Owen agrees I can probably make the most of the investment. I’m going to make a Quicktime file of what I’ve edited already for a visual reference and move all my video files over to Express. I just have to buy it first. That’s the hard part, since it’s $200. I can’t exactly ask Aryeh to get it because his investment would be moving to Chicago right along with me in six weeks, so this one’s on me. But it’s not like I’ll never use it again after this project and I am really excited to learn how to use it. I also think now’s the time to get a cheap mouse for my laptop because editing using a touch pad thinger is rough. Did I mention I love editing video?

Going to the market

The most positive thing about Saturday night’s experience was that I kept thinking, this is going to make one interesting blog post.

My friend Stacey and I went to an event sponsored by a local radio station that night: WNCI’s Man Market. I realize how ridiculous that sounds, and I assure you it was, but it is still blog worthy.

At least we looked cute

I was telling Stacey about it last week and she suggested we go, and even if it was a total bust, it might be a fun people-watching opportunity. I had already kind of wanted to go, but didn’t want to admit it. I had an idea in my head of some perfect guy in Columbus thinking the event was a stupid, humiliating idea and that no self-respecting guy would subject himself to such treatment, but whose friends insisted on dragging him along. He’d be this good-looking-but-geeky guy who loves CD101 and only listens to WNCI on the way to work because it’s funnier than CD101’s morning show. Oh, and he’d have a lot of interesting things to say about “Inception” or something. Not that I got too specific. But yeah, this guy would almost back out of the Man Market at the last minute but ultimately go through with it, thinking what the heck? Maybe there will be a dorky girl there who’s obsessed with movies and indie music and can string together a coherent sentence. Naturally, this guy would have lower expectations of me than I would have of him in this scenario.

I met Stacey at Flannagan’s in Dublin for the event. We were handed a booklet containing brief surveys filled out by each guy who registered for Man Market, over 300 of them. The survey included inspired questions like “What’s your favorite type of lingerie?” and “Who is your dream celebrity date?” Any guy who answered the latter with Megan Fox or Angelina Jolie was a douche bag on principle in my book, so that made weeding people out easier. Eventually Stacey and I just started going by age and I eliminated anyone outside of the 23-27 range. Stacey had the sense to bring a pen, so we took the time to sit and mark down the number of any guy we thought sounded interesting, so we could just try to track down those guys, who were wearing their numbers on their shirts.

After going through the booklet, Stacey had about two dozen prospects; I had seven. Finding any of these numbers was hard, because it was insanely packed and not all the guys were wearing their numbers prominently. Out of the guys I’d picked, there was one I was especially hoping to find: Mr. 297. He said his favorite kind of lingerie was a pair of sweat pants and a hoodie and his dream date was Tina Fey. Be still my heart. Every time Stacey and I walked around the place, I kept looking for that number, but to no avail. After a while I decided he, much like my imaginary ideal guy, must have decided against the whole Man Market thing after all. It only made me like this elusive person even more. Too good for the Man Market!

Stacey talked to a few of the guys on her list of numbers but didn’t really feel a connection with any of them. We knew ahead of time that the kind of guy who frequents Flannagan’s and did this kind of thing would probably not be our types, so we weren’t too disappointed.

We went back toward the dance floor at one point and suddenly, there he was: Number 297, standing there drinking a beer. I saw the number before anything else and turned excitedly to Stacey. “There he is, 297!” I said over the music. Then I turned back to get a better look. Number 297 was a giant. This is probably why he indicated in his survey that he found tall women intriguing. Despite my being 5’6”,  Stacey convinced me to go up to him. We followed him out of the indoors part of the bar and up the stairs. He and his friends stopped at the top of the stairs, and Stacey ended up making my move for me. We sat down and talked with him, the only guy we’d actually done so with all night.

Unfortunately, it turns out I’ve basically already dated Mr. 297 and his name was Brandon. This guy looked nothing like Brandon, but at some point when he was talking I realized they sure seemed to have a lot of the same interests. And after I made that comparison I couldn’t stop making it. This guy liked the same movies, voted for McCain and said some of the same conversational phrases Brandon did. And when he said he wasn’t all that into music, I knew for sure it was a lost cause. We made a polite exit because both Stacey and I were pretty much over it by then, and as we got up to leave, 297 invited us to look him up on Facebook.

Not to get too Carrie Bradshaw on you, but is telling someone to look you up on Facebook the new phone number exchange? Is it? I am so out of the loop.

Anyway, he was a nice guy, but I am not going to add him after all. Hopefully he wasn’t counting on it and waiting for me (or Stacey) to contact him. I am not even sure we told him our names, but his was listed in the booklet we had.

Stacey left around 11, but when I walked back to my car from hers, I realized I was completely stuck. Two ass hats parked in the entrance to the lot, blocking everyone in. I took pictures of their plate numbers on my phone and had the event coordinators read them over the mic, but they said the wrong makes of the cars. Besides, no one was listening at that point. Fortunately, after making some friends in the long line for the bathroom, when I went back out to my car, someone else had left, leaving an opening.

Overall, it was a weird experience. I felt pretty judgmental and I am aware that carries over into this post; but I guess those guys were putting themselves up for that to begin with. Here’s the list of questions the Man Market guys were asked last week:

  • Age:
  • Occupation:
  • Hobbies:
  • Favorite feature on a woman:
  • Favorite kind of lingerie:
  • Dream celebrity date:
  • Best sexual move:

Alternatively, here’s a list I could have actually gotten behind:

  • Are you employed? Please explain.
  • Are you nice to your mother?
  • What movie are you most embarrassed to admit to seeing in theaters?
  • What was the best concert you’ve ever been to?
  • How many dogs do you own?
  • What is the funniest thing you’ve ever seen in your life?
  • Describe your last girlfriend. (If the first word that comes to your mind is “crazy,” and this word also describes all of your other exes, you need not apply.)
  • How many cups of coffee do you consider normal for a single day’s consumption?

Maybe I will host my own event, open to geeks, dorks and hipsters alike. Or maybe I’ll just try to meet someone the normal way.

Speaking of which, what is the normal way? How’d you meet your person?

Also, if you see these cars driving around Columbus, I very seriously considered keying them. Please give them the finger if they pass you going 90 on the interstate or something.

Silver Altima

Silver Jeep

The neighbor debacle

I got three hours of sleep last night. My neighbors stayed up until 8 a.m. playing video games. As a result, I didn’t go to work today, and around 8, passed out on my couch.

I kiiiiind of had a meltdown. A messy, physical, emotional, slam-every-door-in-the-apartment meltdown. And even that didn’t wear me out enough to just fall asleep from exhaustion, despite the noise.

A few nights ago, around 12:30 a.m., I went upstairs and asked the neighbs to shut the hell up. No, not really; I’ve been sickeningly sweet with them, borderline flirtatious, in my earnest efforts to get my six to eight hours. Anyway, that night, they obliged. They always do. But last night. Oh, last night.

I went to bed before midnight without issue. Around 3:30 a.m., I was abruptly woken up by a strong bass line. I went straight up there and kindly asked that they turn it down. As usual, a disembodied male voice behind the door promised to do so. He, or whoever, did so, but not enough. Thirty minutes later, after trying in vain to fall back asleep, I went back up there and knocked several times, but this time, no one answered. I went outside to escape the thumping for a few moments, and then went back in and decided to watch an episode of “Weeds” and wait for them to fall asleep. After the episode was over, they were still going strong. After failing to fall asleep once more, I stormed up there and pounded on the door six or seven times, shouting “Hello?” and still got no reply. It’s really, really hard for me to convince myself they just didn’t hear me, but I’m trying. However, that also makes me greatly concerned for their hearing.

I stormed right back down those stairs, slammed the door behind me and slammed my living room, pantry and bedroom doors, screaming as loud as I could. Then I fell to my knees in pitiful tears, pulling at the carpet as if it, too, was to blame for my misery. After that, I simply gave in. I curled up on the couch and watched three more episodes of “Weeds,” listening at the end of each one to see if they had called it a night/morning yet. At nearly 7 a.m., I called off from work. I knew by then that there was no way I was going to function for eight hours at work on that amount of sleep, and finally around 8, I was permitted at last by the will of the neighbors’ sub woofer, to sleep.

And I slept. For a long time. When I woke up, I called my dad to whine for a good while, and then formed a plan. I went to the store and got some ingredients to make salsa for tomorrow’s Cinco de Mayo party at work, and in the parking lot, I asked Facebook this question:

As you can see, suggestions ranged from unladylike behavior to raging violence. The Subway gift card won in the end, and this afternoon I went upstairs once more with this offering in hand. I hoped it would soften the blow of what I was expecting to be a very unpleasant conversation.

One of the guys let me in this time, and I got to see the inside of their place. I told them I’d had to call off work today because I couldn’t sleep last night. I said I was sorry for bothering them so often, but the noise was louder than I felt they realized. The guy admitted their sub woofer (right above my couch, as it turns out) could be lifted higher off the ground. He said he himself hadn’t been around last night, so he wasn’t sure who the culprit was. However, I’m pretty sure it was the guy playing a video game and paying zero attention to my presence up there. Just saying.

I offered the card as a token of my appreciation and asked them to think of me after midnight or so each night. I went back downstairs and a few minutes later, there was a knock on my door. The guy I’d talked to asked me to point out, in my apartment, where most of the noise was coming from so he’d know who to talk to (there’s three of them altogether, I think). That was pretty nice of him, and he again promised to try to keep his roommates in check at night. He seemed pretty genuine, and he has the tiniest dog I’ve ever seen a grown man own (I knew they had a damn dog up there…).

So, I could be speaking too soon, but I am feeling optimistic about the situation. So far so good for tonight, so maybe I’ll go get my sleep schedule back on track.

Funk folk

When I was in college I had the privilege of not only knowing, but living with, the amazing person known as Levi Funk. He was one of the most fun people I knew in college; he was at the same time always with a sense of humor and yet able to be deadly serious when he saw you needed him to be. Also, he played guitar in his room and made up spontaneous songs about our housemates so he was especially enjoyable to be around (“Meryl, yeah, she is writing a paper…”).

Harmonica and guitar – at the same time

Also, small world: I went last night because I saw on Levi’s Facebook that he was in town. My friends Becca and James saw it and decided to go too and we sat together at the show. Incidentally, Eileen and Levi went to high school together, AND he works at WHIZ with a girl I went to high school with. I guess that’s southeastern Ohio for you.

At last night’s show, which was at The Shrunken Head (formerally Victorian’s Midnight Cafe), we heard at least half a dozen very young, local musicians. The only woman we saw perform was the benefactor of the night’s event. She is raising money to help fund a trip to Uganda to make a documentary. You can follow this project’s progress on its Facebook page. I also bought Levi’s CD (a steal at $5) so I am looking forward to listening to that.

On top of getting to see James, Becca and Levi in one place on a Monday night, it was a pretty good time.

My new favorite picture

My uncle documented the potential train wreck that was my improv debut last night, which was very kind of him. He even found some nice things to say about it. More on this soon, but for now, a photo says a thousand words. This is my new facebook profile picture, having finally conquered the I Can Haz Cheezburger lolcats photo after a two week reign. I change photos pretty quickly, I’ve realized, so two weeks is a long time. May this one reign even longer.

I really did take that improv class you guys