SnarkSense all day every day

Good news, Snarklets!

I started a Twitter account, for little bits of SnarkSense… of course… my handle is @snarksense.

I’m just getting it off the ground, so bear with me, it’s not all that interesting just yet, but will be. Or at least, I will try to make it interesting.

New full post coming tomorrow!

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Catch me if you can

So I came across this today:

If you’re not interested in reading the whole article, let me sum it up for you:

-Man from New Zealand meets American girl in Hong Kong

-They hang out for one night, they go back to respective countries

-He becomes obsessed with her and solicits help from THOUSANDS of strangers on Facebook to find her

-This freaks her out, especially when she gets thousands of emails,  and she deletes her social media accounts

Okay, so now that you have the gist of things, let’s discuss.

Listen, I like a good romantic story just as much as the next person… but is he for real?

 You live across the world from each other, you met her for one night and couldn’t be bothered to get her last name, and then you put her picture on blast on the internet?

I don’t care if she DID leave him with a note that said “find me”, she was obviously drunk, and you, sir, are a stalker.

Not the good kind of stalker, either. I’ll admit… the whole working-in-a-newsroom means there’s some degree of stalking skills necessary to do well at your job. Hell, if he had had our newsroom behind him, between our assignment editors and our social media producer launching an investigation, he would have found this girl in five minutes flat.

Naturally, I realize most people don’t have these kinds of resources.

But you posted the “Help make me look extra creepy and become one of thousands stalking this poor girl” post on FACEBOOK.

Which means you clearly know how to use the website… and in theory, could have just done the same thing to find her yourself!

They obviously made the Graph Search feature for people like you, see: People named “katie” who live in Washington, District of Columbia.

I would have deleted my Facebook account, too, because there has to be something wrong with a single man who has other people chase a woman across the global inter-webs. That he doesn’t even really know. That is SCARY and is in no way acceptable.

Note: women want to feel loved and sexy and sought-after… Just FYI, there is a line between that… and feeling like you and 2,000 other people may or may not end up standing over us as we sleep wearing only a crooked smile, fondling a butcher knife.

I’m SURE there has to be a lovely (albeit slightly off) lady somewhere in New Zealand that would be an acceptable stand-in for Katie. And on the plus side, she would then also be located in your hemisphere.

Why you can’t be a normal social media user like me?

Sure, I “stalk” people on Facebook, but they’re people I know… who hasn’t stalked people they went to high school with? You know, into the wee hours of the morning… looking for just one person that makes you feel like you’ve made one or two good life decisions… I know I have to get up so early, but just one more person, little voice in my head… the next one is going to be the one! oh… no, she’s married… and they bought a house… and… and…

Sniffle. Tear.

Actually, it’s been quite some time since I’ve done that. (No, honestly. Truth.)

Instead, my new favorite Facebook pastime is looking at baby bump photos people post. (I swear, this really is less creepy than it sounds. I seriously re-wrote that sentence six times but realized at face value, there’s really no way I can say that without it sounding highly suspect, so you’re just going to have to bear with me for a minute, please.)

Hubby-to-Be stops being a to-Be in less than four months. He is under the impression if we do not have a baby relatively soon (the timeline on this is fuzzy, but in the next year or so) he will then immediately become too old to play with said baby. (He’s 30. I am not the only dramatic one in this relationship).

So I recently realized this whole baby thing, and you know, being pregnant with it, is in the near future. The plus side of this is, is that it’s inspired me to work on making some lifestyle changes to more healthy habits, like eating better, exercising regularly, drinking more water, hence the Weight Watchers and such. (Well, there’s the white dress, too.)

The down side is I am now slightly obsessed with exactly how my body will change during pregnancy, whether I will gain too much weight, and having a cute baby bump. THAT’S why I look at baby bump pictures… because I’m trying to guess what kind of bump I will have, and what it will look like.

I have issues.

I know when the time comes, I’ll just be thrilled to have a relatively easy, healthy pregnancy and a beautiful, healthy little one.

But for now…

Seriously, though, did you read the last paragraphs in the article??

“We found the girl … She is from DC, she’s not there at the moment, but she’s sorta taken all her public profiles (offline) for a little bit,” he wrote, according to the Herald.

McKee told the Herald he plans to reach out contact the girl “when things died down a little bit.”


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You’ve been smoochin’ with everybody

I was originally going to write about something else tonight… but then Hubby-to-Be and I decided to watch ‘Home Alone 2′.

One of my favorite movies as a kid, holiday or no, it’s totally bizarre to watch as an adult. (Bizarre, but hilarious. The two of us were cackling in our living room… it’s times like these that make me glad the walls to the neighbors’ appear to be soundproof… or at least, very well insulated.)

Let me start by saying, yes, I know it’s a movie, it’s not real, it’s meant to entertain, be fake, etc. Well aware. Okay, now that that’s out of the way…

First, I can’t get over anyone’s haircuts. Let’s be serious, the 90s, especially the early 90s, resulted in a good look for pretty much… no one. (I can be included in this. While I can’t recall anything I wore in this specific year, at some point in that general time period, I distinctly remember thinking my maroon corduroy pants and awful navy and white patterned short-sleeve sweater with maroon accents was going to the outfit to take me straight to the top of the fashion food chain… huge, multicolored plastic glasses, the perfect accessories. Thanks, Clueless.)

Second, I love Tim Curry. This really requires no further explanation.

But let’s get to some of the finer points. This is clearly not a movie made in this decade… DCF (or CPS or whomever) would be ALL OVER these people. Not only do you forget your child to go on vacation once, but it happens again? You don’t even seem all that upset, who ARE you people? A rule of thumb: if you have so many kids you can’t notice if one is missing, that’s too many.

Plus. this kid would NEVER have made it onto the plane after having dropped his boarding pass now, get real. You misspell your name on the boarding pass, they won’t let you on. (True story. Ask my mom.)

And don’t even get me started on the idiots at the hotel that allow him to check into the room.

You have to admire Kevin’s ingenuity with all his moves to thwart the robbers… I am pretty sure most adults can’t pull off all that in such a short period of time. Though, can someone explain to me why a ten-year-old knows about kerosene? It’s not like he’s Googling that in 1992.

The best part, which Hubby-to-Be joyfully pointed out to me, close to the end, right before they leave the Munster house the action takes place at, Kevin’s “operational” plans to stop the bad guy are completely laid out right in front of the guys, but naturally, this escapes them, and instead, after all this kid has put them through, they decide yet again, to follow him.

But all of this I can take. Although my brain is so fantastical that this is what I was thinking during the movie, none of this is truly what bothers me.

It’s the pigeons.

I can’t do it. I really just cannot do it.

I don’t particularly like birds of any kind, to be fair– though I wouldn’t necessarily wish harm on any of them. But pigeons? Rats with wings? Any native New Yorker can tell you, pigeons are not okay.

And not only does the kid TOUCH. THEM. The homeless lady WEARS THEM!!

Absolutely not. The bile is rising in my throat as I type.

Listen, in the past, I have had my share of rough patches concerning love life, broken hearts, etc. etc. but there is nothing on this planet, no amount of money, nothing at all that could make me want to spend YEARS with pigeons, let alone frolic about with them perched on my arms and head, with all their mess and sure-to-be diseases.

I get that you’re depressed, lady, but I assure you, the pigeons really aren’t going to help matters. No man, no heartbreak, is worth living with pigeons.

And then at the end, HE.HUGS.THE.LADY.


By the way, there IS a reason I have such an intense dislike for pigeons. I used to go on home appraisals with my mom when I was a kid… and one day, we were inspecting this four-family home in Sea Gate, Brooklyn. Big old, vacant, jalopy house, with a unit to a floor. I’m maybe a tween or something at this point, and she asks me to head up to the fourth floor to see if the unit is laid out the same way as the third floor. No problem, right?


Because someone left a window open up there… and there are literally HUNDREDS of pigeons… which scatter AND FLY INTO ME when I open the door. THEY TOUCH ME.

And then, years later, I’m walking down Steinway Street in Astoria… and a pigeon flies into my head!! (Yes, this did result in me nearly being Baker Act-ed. I’m flapping my arms around wildly as if to bat it away, screaming my damn head off, and naturally, no one around me saw it happen. The only saving grace is, in NYC, someone flailing and screaming at something invisible is not all that uncommon, so the kind strangers let it pass.)

So pigeons and I, we don’t really have all that great a history together. I’m sure all this thought on the subject is going to bring me interesting nightmares tonight.

The evening ends with me fighting the tears as the neglectful mother and demon-child son are reunited. I avoid having them spilling over solely because of my horror at the Pigeon Lady-hugging.

Damn PMS.

Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal.

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Popping the blog cherry

So, this is happening. I have officially started a blog, which is something you’re clearly aware of if you’re reading this. I don’t really know who I am yet as a blogger, and I am apparently technology-stupid because I can barely figure out how to navigate and use WordPress, but hey, baby steps, right?

I have only been seriously thinking about writing for about 5 days now, and of course, when I finally come up with a name I only semi-hate, I can’t think of anything to say.

So I will tell you a story.

Last week, I had my first appointment with an orthopedic doctor. If you don’t know, I was in a car accident about three months ago. I was extremely lucky; escaped with a couple of herniated discs and my life.

Anyway, the point of this visit was basically to have another opinion on what my chiropractor has been doing for treatment, check on the MRIs I had done, etc. etc. (I promise I’m not going to give you a play-by-play of the discs in my spine, hang with me here.)

When the doctor finally came in, and I do mean finally, she was about 45 minutes late, citing a traffic accident on the major highway nearby. I was already annoyed at this point; not only did I just come from the SAME PLACE as she did with no traffic OR accident, even if there had been… hello!?! I’m a journalist. I get alerts on these types of things! Just tell me your kid missed the bus or some other very real, understandable hang-up, I’m not completely unreasonable… just mostly.

So I’m already pissed off. Then she proceeds to basically tell me she isn’t all that concerned about my issues, speak to me as though I am said child that missed the bus, and just generally condescend to me, criticizing pretty much everything I say.

I was THIS close to telling her off… but then something totally unexpected happened.

Just after she has me bend this way and that, walk around, poke at me a bit, she tells me that if I strengthen my core, it will help my lower back.

For some reason, even though this is a completely legit statement and one I’ve heard before, because I’m already in a pissy mood, I’m defensive and immediately feel the need to justify my physical stature (which is pretty much short and somewhat round, I’ve been referred to as think, curvy, etc.). So I say, “Well, I know I don’t look like it, but I do work out… I swim along with an adult swim team and I take strength classes, you can’t see my muscle but it’s really there somewhere.” (Seriously, it is!!)

And that’s when it happens.

She stops. And she stares at me. And says matter-of-factly, “You’re not fat. I think you look strong. Bodies come in all shapes and sizes, and just because you don’t look like what you see on TV and magazines doesn’t mean anything is wrong with you. So many people love you, that’s what really matters. Your body looks like it is supposed to, and if you keep working out, sure, it may change, but just keep doing what you’re doing. You need to stop.”

And then because I’m me, I start to cry.  (To be fair, I do cry over pretty much everything that elicits any kind of strong emotion. Mad, sad, happy, angry, frustrated… sigh.)

Which causes me to be even MORE annoyed, because I’m annoyed she has to go and say something pretty awesome when I was all intent on digging in my heels and disliking her.

The truth is… no one has ever said that to me before. I think in some ways, being told I looked strong, instead of pretty, or beautiful or anything else, was exactly what I needed to hear. Especially because she wasn’t the “tell-you-what-you-want-to-hear” type.

It made me think a little differently about some of my current goals in life. Yes, I want to lose weight. Yes, I want to look better– even great– in that white dress I have to put on in T-minus 15 weeks. Yes, I want to reach my Weight Watchers goals.

But I don’t want any of it unless I look– and feel– strong.

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