Gab's Blabs

CAUTION: Read when drunk

I've been tagged? Peggy Tibbetts, the wonderful author of "Rumors of War" tagged me with a MeMe. So, now I'm it.

As an "it" I have to post eight random facts/truths about myself. Get a drink and brace yourself.

1. I’m funnier than my husband. Although, he did have his friends rolling last night when he explained the following: “The reason why two of Gab’s ex-boyfriends went gay on her is because when she was in high-school, she was in the head start program for gays. You know, the Drama Club. She spent so many years in this head start program, that it broke her gaydar.” 

2. Fact number three: When I was dating my husband, I told him he wouldn’t be getting “any (nudge, nudge, wink, wink)” unless he voted Democrat. He quickly converted.

3. Fact number two: As a kid, I had a bloodhound dog named General Stonewall Jackson who sang to the harmonica. He could sing in English and in Polish.

4. I am 4’9”. This was a deliberate choice on my part. Yes, I chose to be 4’9” because I delight in bitching about the height of my kitchen cabinets.

5. When I was in high school, I worked at Orange Julius. None of my co-workers knew my dad. So, at night, at the end of my shift, my dad would walk in (dressed in his garage grubbies) and pretend to be a homeless drunk. He would say, “Hey, pretty lady, do you have any food to spare?” I would retort, “Listen, you stupid lazy man, get a job, get some money, and feed yourself. Now get outa here!” Ah, good times.

6. I can touch my nose with my tongue.

7. I’m with Peggy on wanting a new pet. I REALLY want a goat named Copernicus.   

8. I once delivered a Strip-O-Gram for Eastern Onion. It was a disaster. The man was very old, and, sadly, in a wheel chair. His family had a small dinner for him at his house. The mood was quiet – definitely not the setting for a Strip-O-Gram. I danced around the dining room for him and only stripped down to a negligee - I refused to take off more. The only response I got was a little bit of drool dripping from his mouth. When I finished, you could hear the crickets chirping outside. After my show, I thanked my blue-haired audience and walked out. The guy who hired me followed me out, and gave me a $100 tip. Not bad for making an old guy drool!

OK, so who’s next? Hmmm Paloma, Joe, Fran, Morgan, Michelle, Sean, and, hmmm (oh what the hell - why not) Mr. Dave Barry. Oops, that’s only seven. Oh well, fuzzy math.

The MySpace Muck

Thank God for Typepad!

I love this blog so much more than MySpace.

Yeah, I had a MySpace account. Just don’t tell anyone. Well, I just told you. And you are???? Hellooooo? Anyone out there?

Nope, didn’t think so.

Anyhow, back to MySpace. What a hellacious distraction! Sometimes it would take me hours to post a blog and return messages to some of my so-called "friends." In my world where I'm managing my business (www.BoostYourCredibility.com), time is money. I just don't have time to waste. How in the heck do people work, have a non-virtual social life AND spend so much time at this portal to the weird?

Maybe I’m just a true geek at heart, but, oddly enough, the most sane folk I found at MySpace were the Trekkers and the wannabe physicists.

The weird? Let’s start with Holly Clark. Who is this chick?
She has hot pink hair, lives in Orange County and has a gazillion friends. No kidding! I opened three accounts at MySpace (don’t ask) and she was my second new friend at every account. I’m beginning to wonder if Tom is really a cross dresser in a pink wig.

And, why so many friends? What is the purpose in having 43,987 friends? Does the person with that many friends REALLY chat with each one of their so-called friends?

Here’s the one that gets me. When I first opened my account, I tried to make new friends. On more than one occasion, I was rejected by the guy with over 3,000 friends! I received this message from the 3,000 Friend Guy, “Nope, sorry, I’m not taking you for my friend. You’re too normal looking. Maybe if you PhotoShopped your head onto a dancing lizard, I might invite you to my blog. But, you can’t be my friend.”

OK, MySpace had its perks. I was able to stay in touch with friends and family that I hadn’t seen in years. OK, maybe in some cases, that’s not such a good thing after all. I could spy on my older child. Don’t worry, he won’t read this. He’s a teenager – he can only read and comprehend monosyllabic English.

But, the ultimate downside? MySpace is like an eternal party with strippers – once you get there, you can’t leave. You don’t want to watch the show, but morbid curiosity draws you in until you go blind. Getting to the front door is virtually impossible. Once you get there, every time you open the door, someone shuts it and flushes your keys down the toilet. Finally, before you know it, you’re doing shots of JaegerMaister, flirting with the hunk on the dance floor (or in my case, in the “Theoretical Physics Group,” who is probably just a 13-year-old kid from Greenland) and mocking the peppy cheerleader who won’t shut up.

From there on, it is down hill. You associate with the top bloggers whose most creative word is F**K and before you know what hit you, you have 100 friend requests a day. You can’t keep up with all your new friends and no sooner than you can say “Tom is my best friend” you have a bug, your Space is hacked AND your computer is infected with a virus that wipes out all of your Outlook addresses. Sooooo, in the end, you have no friends on MySpace or on Outlook. Yes, this actually happened to me. The only difference was that the hunk in the “Theoretical Physics Group” was REALLY my husband. Yeah, he was a little embarrassed, too, when he realized that the 21-year-old bimbo from Los Angeles that he was hitting on was really his 40-year-old wife from Annandale.

So, I closed my account. What was the last straw? Oprah wanted to be my friend.