Seven reasons I won’t accept your friend request

Do I really have 244 friends? It’s pretty hard to believe since I spent last Friday night sitting at home eating Combos and watching “Water for Elephants” On Demand while my husband was carousing with my cousins at buck camp. It’s not that I couldn’t have gotten a sitter for the kids — not one of those so-called friends invited me out. These days, 244 friends isn’t even a big number. But now that the novelty of Facebook has worn off a bit, I’ve gotten more selective about who I want added to my list of friends…and who I don’t want added.

1) If while riding the bus to school in third grade, you ripped the puffy hand-crocheted ball off the top of my hat (made with love by Grandma Adsit) and then proceeded to toss it around the bus, I will not accept your friend request.

2) If you are my 15-year-old babysitter, I will not accept your friend request.

3) If I have ever referred to you in my status update as the annoying co-worker who talks too loudly on the phone about your kid’s bodily fluids and the violent way in which they exited his body, I will not accept your friend request.

4) If we went to college together and you tried to kiss my boyfriend in the basement of the blue Pepsi house during cartoon cocktails at Springfest, I will not accept your friend request.

5) If you are the friend of a friend who wants a job at my company and thinks I can give you a positive referral, I will not accept your friend request.

6) If you don’t speak English, I will not accept your friend request. Not trying to discriminate, just seems like a moot point.

7) If I have absolutely positively no flipping idea who you are and neither do any of my actual friends, I will not accept your friend request.

On a side note, Google+ has a great feature in which you can assign people to an acquaintance circle or a friend circle. If you fall into the above category of 1, 3, 5, or 7, I would definitely add you to my Google+ circle of acquaintances. Sorry 2, 4, 6…not gonna happen.

Roadtrip!

Up until last week, I had three good reasons to admire the prestige of a Cadillac:

1) There was the Caddy driven by my late Grandpa DiTorrice. I was too young to remember that gem, but the connection to my Grandpa automatically gives it street cred.

2) As a pre-teen, I dreamed of one day selling enough lipstick and rouge to earn myself a fancy pink Cadillac from the Mary Kay cosmetics company. Oh, how the neighbors would covet my ride!

3) Then there was that other pink Cadillac during my teen years in which I envisioned myself riding in the back and cruising down the street with Mr. Bruce Springsteen while the E Street Band followed close behind.

Last weekend I was presented with the keys to my very own 2012 black Cadillac to drive for a work trip to Minneapolis. I bragged to my husband, I tweeted my good fortune, and I even updated my Facebook page to reflect my cool new status. In the car, I explored everything from the double sunroof to the rear-view video display to the analog clock in the center panel that looked unusually elegant.

On Sunday afternoon, the roadtrip began. Almost five hours and a venti nonfat skinny mocha later, I realized that the Cadillac is really just a means of getting me from point A to point B…not that impressive, actually.

There’s just no denying that five hours in any car is going to cause bum pain. The type of vehicle you drive simply determines how pretentious you can be when describing the pain. I break it down as such:

  • Chevy Silverado: After five hours in my husband’s full-size extended cab pick-up truck, my ass hurts.
  • Honda Odyssey: After five hours in my kid friendly sky blue soccer mom minivan, my pooper aches.
  • 2012 Cadillac: After five hours in my fully loaded luxury sedan, my derrière is experiencing extreme discomfort.

In other words, it’s all the same to me. I don’t know what Grandpa D, Mary Kay, and the Boss think they knew about Cadillacs, but the next time I’m asked to visit Minneapolis, I’m going to check out cheaptickets.com and arrive in less than an hour.

Bad teacher

Okay, I’m not Cameron Diaz bad, but even my own mom claims that I’m a bad teacher. Isn’t she contractually obligated to tell me that everything I do is amazing?

In the last several years, I’ve spent countless hours teaching my mom:

  • How to program the VCR
  • How to use a DVD player
  • How to use a universal remote
  • How to use a cell phone
  • How to search with Google
  • How to bookmark
  • How to create a Yahoo! e-mail account
  • How to buy me presents on Amazon
  • How to use a digital camera
  • How to attach photos to an e-mail
  • How to send photos to Walgreens
  • How to buy a Groupon
  • How to “ship to store”
  • How to reserve movies from Redbox
  • How to “friend” somebody on Facebook
  • How to “defriend” somebody on Facebook

While my mom has truly mastered a few of the items above, our lessons have left her performance less than stellar on a majority of these activities. She blames her lack of understanding on me for being a bad teacher. I will admit that I don’t read diaglog boxes, I grab the mouse from her hand, I click faster than a Kardashian marriage, and I swear a little. Apparently what I perceive as efficient, others find irritating. You say potato, I say potahto.

I pretended not to hear my mom a few weeks ago when she asked, “Should I be tweeting?” And again yesterday morning when she said, “I wish that I knew how to sell stuff on Craig’s List.” I literally ran from the room when she uttered the words, “I ordered a DVR last week.”

That said, my mom was my very first blog subscriber and she still doesn’t even know what is a blog. I truly love my mom for trying so hard to learn about technology, new media, and how I spend my days in eMarketing. I just wish that somebody else would teach her.