STICKS AND STONES…

Friend: Janet was looking for a baby sitter.
Me: Really? Why didn’t she ask me?
Friend: I don’t know. She was looking for a professional; someone who could work all day.
Me: Oh—really? I’m actually glad she didn’t ask me. I don’t like her kid anyway.
Friend: Really?
Me: Yea. He was mean to me. I did the whole “Hi little human being, how are you?” thing and he just glared at me and ran off to hang out with some other grown up who was much more boring than I.
Friend (perplexed): You went with the whole “Hi, I am an adult human being and I am doing you a favor by speaking to you” route and he ran away?
Me: Yes, he did! I can’t understand why. He was a child. He should have been peeing in delight because I spoke to him.
I hate it when kids do that. It’s just extremely hurtful and I feel ashamed to admit it really stung me.
Friend: Yea, it’s happened to me before. I hate it too. It’s tricky because you don’t want to tell anyone about the hurt because it was a child that insulted you.
Me: I’m glad you understand.
Friend: I do. I wonder why they do it? Are some kids just born with the “I will make you cry gene?”
Me: Not sure, but that kid needs to know I laugh, I hurt, I cry—gosh…I have REAL feelings. So seriously—ignore the fact the kid hates me—she’s not looking for a weekend baby sitter?
Friend: You could offer. Everyone—I repeat, everyone—with a kid is looking for a good weekend babysitter. I’m sure she’d be thrilled.
Me: The sad thing is: it’s really not about babysitting the kid. It’s her wonderfully renovated house…I just want to sit in it and admire every design element about it. I’d probably just sit there staring at the polished ceiling beams while the 7-year-old took her Porsche out for a spin.
Friend: I was wondering why you were so excited about babysitting. I say go for it. She’ll probably offer to let you eat some of her brie while you are there.
Me: Ohh Brie!? Maybe I will say something...

Photo Credits: Art.com
Title: Sticks and Stones III
By: Glenys Porter

Cutting the Cord...

Some people get really frustrated at mothers in the breast feeding community for not covering up; I don’t really care about that, my personal issue is with the moms that don’t cut it off.

Once, my family and I were having dinner in the home of another family, let’s call them family XYZ. Mother XYZ had numerous children. One was a girl; she looked about 4 or 5 and had a strong set of teeth that looked like they could bite an oak tree in half. I noticed that little girl XYZ’s plate was empty—she was eating nothing. I was puzzled. Wasn’t she hungry? Had she eaten already? Then suddenly, girl XYZ, with the calcium enriched sharp teeth, ran to her mother (who was eating) and began nudging her for food. It took me and the rest of my family a minute to understand what was happening—she wanted to breastfed.
We were all horrified. Especially me—I couldn’t eat another bite (okay fine, the food tasted like it had been cooked in stale oil which is why I didn’t want another bite) but regardless, the whole thing was distasteful and perplexing.

A later conversation with a friend:

Me: …Mothers need to cut off breastfeeding on time...it's just indecent when they don't and while we’re on the topic: I don’t see why you can’t just pass along your baby to someone else to breastfeed, you know?
Nurturing friend: “You can’t because that’s SICK!”
Me: No, sick is when the kid keeps on feeding up until they are 5-years-old. Yechh.
N. friend (shudders): Ew! Yuck. But passing along the kid to be fed by someone else is not right and is certainly not normal. Who would even do that for you?
Me: Oh I’m pretty sure one of my friends would (I think about it for a moment). Yea, she’d definitely do it for me.

Third party walks in and informs us that during the medieval times ladies-in-waiting would breastfeed their master’s wives babies.
Me: See? It’s not sick. Our recent ancestors did it.
N friend: So your friend would just sit around the clock breastfeeding your kid? Doesn’t she have a life?
Me: You are right; quite inconsiderate of me…I take it back. I’ll just hire someone; like a professional lady-in-waiting.
N Friend: They existed in medieval times; it’s 2008. Where would you find one today?
Me: Loudoun County babe. In some places in Loudoun they still have buggies and bonnets. Some of the people there still think it’s the 1600s. No one’s been there to tell them otherwise.
N Friend (stifles a smile): It’s sick, sick, sick.
Me: Ok fine! I’ll just give the baby vitamin D milk instead. It’s full of nutrients.
N. friend (frustrated): You can’t just do that. It’s bad for them. They need breast milk.
Me: No they don’t.
N. friend: Yes they do! It really affects them if they don’t have it!
Me (stubbornly): Show me an adult that is either: socially inept and awkward, or has a serious medical condition that they can attribute to being denied breast milk as a child... then I will believe your point. Do you know anyone?
N. friend: No…but I’m sure—
Me: I need names. Anyone at all? Have any of your friends ever said to you “Hey, this is really personal and private, but I just wanted to let you know that I have socialization problems because my mom didn’t feed me breast milk as a child…”
N. friend (flatly): Your future child will have problems. And my child, who is breast fed, will be really smart and intelligent. And when they hang out on the playground, it will be really obvious whose kid had breast milk.
Me: Haha. You know that ironically, life will pull a fast one on you and my kid will be the intelligent and smart one right?
N friend: Yea, I know, (shaking her head) I know.

Photo credits got to www.turas-troimh-alba.com

Riding in the car on the way to work:

Friend: Our admin staff is crazy at my office.
Me: How so?
Friend: They just are.
She lists multiple, interesting examples of their craziness and finishes off with:
and they even paint their nails in the bathroom at work!
Me: REALLY? How unprofessional!
Friend: The other day one had an interview for another job and took the call in the bathroom.
ME: WHAT?
Friend: It was really dumb; everyone goes into that bathroom, including all her bosses.
Me: WOW that is dumb.
Friend: Especially since she was sitting in the stall so she couldn’t see who was coming in and going out.
Me: WAIT—this is getting weirder. She wasn’t even by the sinks? She was doing this enclosed in a stall?
Friend (continues): And it made my coworker—who was in the bathroom during the interview—feel awkward and confused because she didn’t know whether to flush or not.
Me (in wonderment): Flush? OHHH… I hadn’t even considered that! She’s interviewing for a job and there are random flushing noises in the background???

(Silence for a moment as we both contemplate the issue of whether to flush or not during a coworker’s interview)

Friend (matter of fact tone): I mean, I wouldn’t care…if I need to flush, I need to flush. I’m not going to refrain from flushing just because someone is conducting an interview in the bathroom.
Me: Yea, I would flush too. I guess the new position she is applying for can’t be all that awesome anyway. One doesn’t really interview for a vice president position with flushing noises in the background…
Friend: Agreed.

Photo credits: vidal.jpg

Take a Number!

THE OTHER DAY I received an e-vite to a birthday event at a D.C. lounge from an acquaintance called X.
I perused it and continued on with my day. Later that afternoon, I received an email from a friend:
Friend: “Hey, did you notice that on X’s e-vite we are the last two people invited?”
I hadn’t noticed—I checked. We were the last two people. More specifically, I was the LAST person invited. This was significant because X had invited 99 people to his soiree.
I wrote my friend back and said:
“How did you even notice that? I didn’t notice until you mentioned it; it doesn’t bother me... Although it does kind of irk and surprise me that YOU were picked before me.”
He responded:
“I did a guest scan to see which people were invited and was mildly amused to see us both at the bottom. That said, I was even more amused to see my name above yours.”

And it truly did not bother me…until later that night.
Suddenly, the sheer depth of the perceived social injustice sunk in.
99? 99?! I was the 99th person he thought of? 99 is an afterthought!
It’s like the song “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall”…no one cares about the 99th bottle. It gets taken down, passed around, and 10 beers later no one even remembers there was ever a 99th bottle. In the grand scheme of life I was the 99th bottle to X.

100th invited guest would have been classier. Now that’s an accomplishment; it has a sense of dignity to it. I could have introduced myself at the event and said: “Hello, nice to meet you. I’m actually the 100th invited guest.” And people would have said “Whoooooa, nice to meet you 100th guest! Will you be making a speech at this event? It seems fitting. Can I fan you with a large palm leaf and feed you grapes?”

But no. The door guy will have to go through 98 names first before he even gets to mine. And then he won’t be patient enough to look at the last page so then he’ll conclude: “You’re not on the list—sorry” in a tone that obviously shows he isn't sorry and he’ll look through me like I’m made of glass and suddenly invisible.
Then I’ll delicately whisper, “Um…actually …I’m the 99th person…check the last name on the list.”
Then he’ll recheck, see my name, give a smirk that says “you barely made it” and let me in.

99 is just the last, redundant mile marker on a road trip to a destination. It’s like X thought:
“Common! I need to invite 100 people. Ah Nancy! She can be 97…..weird John… he can be 98—hopefully he won’t bring his “Planet of the Apes” figurines. Who else…who else…that weird girl who always loses her metro card…she can be 99 I guess…but who could be 100? Shawn? No, I kissed his girlfriend that one time, he needs really get over that… it’s been 2 weeks. Derek? Oh, he’s already on the list at number 25. I guess I’ll have to cap it off at number 99… the weird metro card girl. Sigh.”

BUT then I realized something brilliant: I could take my scarlet letter…or double digit number…or whatever it was…and really work it …proudly as if it were a badge: “Hi, I’m the 99th guest…just got invited here by the skin of my teeth, great to meet you! What number were you? 5th? Wow, X must really like you! Oh you said 75th? Ooooooh, that’s bit low. What did you do wrong? You broke his new I-phone? No wonder you’re 75; shoot I’m surprised you didn’t drop to 93 for that…..”

And that is how I shall play it.


Pictopia.com

The Perils of City Dating....

Got this message in my inbox from a good friend:

"…I went to 18th Street Lounge last night. They had live reggae music and I met the law guy there. It was tons
of fun, he kissed me good nite...and then got hit by a car this morning…”

Photo credits: www.nature.com

The Story of an Almost-Quarter Life Crisis

The following events are 100 percent true and DID take place in the H&M on M Street.

A couple of weeks ago I decided I wanted a motorcycle jacket. “Is this a mid life crisis?” my mom inquired when I told her. “More of an almost-quarter life crisis,” I answered.

First, I went to Urban Outfitters and searched. “We’ve run out!” the sales girl told me sympathetically. Then she whispered, “Go to H&M!” So I did.

In the midst of H&M polyester frocks and spandex jumpsuits, I found it: the perfect biker jacket. It had so many zippers it could have been a straight jacket. If street cred was measured by the number of zippers on a garment, the owner of this jacket could pass as a Hell’s Angel. I grabbed it before some malnourished, fashionable, 13 year-old city boy could (seriously, that’s the competition at H&M these days).

I had on a sweater, collared shirt, and loafers…with polka dot bows (I know, I know…I can’t explain it…these things just happen sometimes). I questioned myself for a minute. Would the sales clerk laugh at me for buying the jacket? No, of course not! That would be extremely unprofessional, I thought to myself.

I headed toward the counter and plunked the jacket on it.
The H&M sales clerk glanced up at me briefly and then focused on the jacket. He took it, then without making eye contact, said:
H&M David (face is passive): Big fan of zippers?
Me: Um….I guess…
H&M David (suddenly filled with passion): Don’t buy this!
Me: What? Why?!
H&M David: I can't let you get this. Your face is too sweet and cute for this edgy jacket.
Me: Excuse me?!
H&M: This jacket doesn't look like you. The jacket isn't sweet ...its biker chick-like.
Me: What?! But I don't want to look sweet and cute! I want to look edgy! I need this jacket!
H&M David: You don't have the right face for a biker chick...your face has kindness written all over it.
Me: Don't say that; that's mean! Why would you say that to someone?! I’m offended! I can be fierce!
H&M David(continues as if I had never spoken): And you have good teeth...that doesn't go with the jacket. It doesn’t make sense.
Me (look around for the hidden camera because this is obviously a joke): Biker chicks can have good teeth! (Pause uncertainly) ... can't they?
H&M David (shakes his head): You're too sweet. Just put it down.
Me (I stamp my loafer): I am having an almost-quarter-life crisis. I don't want to look sweet; I want to look EDGY, that is why I am buying this jacket DAVID.
H&M: Sorry, I'm not letting you get this. You’ll regret it....
Me: That is why I have a receipt....
H&M: Hmmm…I guess that’s true.
Me: Can I buy the jacket now please?
H&M: Fine, just keep your receipt.
Me (mutter): I won’t need to.

But David got in my head. Psyched me out. For two weeks I couldn’t take the tag off the jacket; it just hung in my closet mocking me. Every time I unzipped a suitcase, gym bag, or skirt, I could hear H&M David's voice squawking: Keep the receipt! Keep the receipt!

Finally, I took it back to H&M ( but an H&M in VA instead of the city because I didn’t want to see David’s smarmy smile when I returned it).

Days later I got an email from my mother.
Mother: “I think I found a marvelous, edgy leather jacket online; you should check it out and tell me what you think!”
Me: “Oh, for me? I’ve passed that phase but I’ll look.”
Mother: “Oh, it’s not for you…it’s for me!”

And the life crisis cycle continues…

Photo credits:www.chi-athenaeum.org

Be Mine! Call Me! Kiss Me! Get OUT!

SO I had a perfectly jaded "Valentine’s day is just another commercial holiday" post lined up but it’s MUCH, MUCH harder to post something like that after you unexpectedly receive two old school Valentine’s Day cards (one with a Disney Princess on it!), a rose, and a box of sweethearts. Whether we like to admit it or not, once you get a box of sweethearts on Valentine’s Day it’s like all the hatred and irritability is sucked out of the atmosphere and all you have left is this warm, mushy feeling that feels like sugar plum fairies dancing in your tummy, smells like baking snicker doodles, and tastes like a baby’s first breath after leaving the womb. It’s absolutely terrible.


Since I can’t post the original anti-commercialism rant I’ll recap the morning:

While flipping through radio stations in traffic:
Mix 107.3 (or whatever it is called):
Radio Host: You’ve just got to make sure you show her how much you care. And ladies…don’t beat him down and make him feel bad if he takes you to Chick-Fil-A for dinner. He loves you and is doing the best he---
YECH-I change the station.

HOTT 99.5
Broken hearted guy (sort of wailing while still trying to be cool): HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME? HOWWWWW?
Smug girl (slightly amused and obviously enjoying herself): How could I not?
BH guy: HOW COULD YOU NOT?? YOU CHEATED ON ME!
Smug girl (sounds like she is casually painting her toenails): of course I did! It’s your own fault!
BH guy: Were you ever going to admit this to me?
Smug girl: I don’t know. Maybe? If you had been cool, I’d possibly have let you know by now. Possibly. I’m not sure though.
BH guy: Why would you do this to me?
Smug girl: Because you’re not a man! I didn’t tell you because you can’t handle it. Look at you now, you found out about this and instead of talking to me, you confronted me on the radio. YOU ARE NOT A MAN. JAKE IS 100 TIMES MANLIER THAN YOU WILL EVER BE.
Radio Host (clearing stoking the fire): UGH, that is cold, smug girl. That is COLD.
BH guy: You’re a EXPLETIVE! EXPLETIVE! EXPLETIVE!
Smug girl: Well you’re a EXPLETIVE! EXPLETIVE! EXPLETIVE! With a EXPLETIVE!

Too intense and Springer-like for me: I change the station again.
DC 102.4 (or whatever it’s called):
News Anchor: “And the Kurds are currently regrouping for another attack.”
(I feel relieved and think to myself: Finally, something sensible I can listen to).
News Anchor: “In other news, today is Valentine’s day. Lovers are sending each other “I love you” text messages, Facebook messages, pretty pink ponies, and rainbows made out of expensive puppy dog tails!”

YECH! I change the station back to H0T 99.5.
BH guy: Pack your stuff. I’m kicking you out!
Smug girl: Out? I’m ON THE LEASE. How are you going to kick me out?
BH guy (sounds uncertain):…Well I AM!
Smug girl: Ha, you are not! (HANGS UP)
Radio Host (disappointed she hung up): She hung up man. I’m sorry. Gosh Jake…how are you feeling?
Silence.
Radio Host: Oh crap! I called you Jake. Jake is the guy she’s cheating on you with! I’m SORRY!

And so the ride to work continued.

Photo Credits go to: Sister72...check her stuff out

Say NO to Drinking and Driving, Drugs, and ROBOTS!

On Saturday night I was wrapping up my routine persuasive speech about why I hate robots. Since I’d already successfully delivered the speech twice that afternoon, I was feeling a little overconfident. So overconfident that I skipped two crucial points I usually spend time emphasizing and went straight to the “…and this is why a) robots are evil and will take over the world in 2045 and b) why we must destroy them before they destroy us” conclusion. The result: I got blank looks and the much feared: Cricket. Cricket.

My fear of robots started last week when I dragged one of my friends to some frou frou D.C. event that I felt would improve our cultural perspective. Unbeknownst to me, instead of focusing on the evolution of Japanese fashion, the exhibit heavily focused on robots.

The first robot we saw was a female one patterned after a human; it was scary because at first, second, and third glance she STILL looked like a human being. She wore an exquisite silk kimono, had shiny, dark hair and pretty brown eyes that blinked. She was actually very attractive and it made me uncomfortable and slightly jealous because it didn’t seem fair she was so pretty (what kind of geek creates a HOT robot chick?). The only thing that hinted she was a robot was her slight awkwardness.

Observers and tourists passed a mike around and asked her random questions which she answered on the spot without ANY human aid. It was CREEPY. Occasionally when she got the answers wrong (apparently hot robot chicks are not perfect) she would giggle and tell a dumb joke, which all the men in the room would laugh at, as if her stilted, preprogrammed joke was the funniest joke they had ever heard in their lives. At one point during her Q and A time I started envying the way her lashes fanned out and began wondering what kind of mascara she used. Cover Girl? No...too lucious for that. MAC? MayBelline? Then I had to remind myself: SHE IS A ROBOT.

The second robot exhibit perturbed me even more.
First, Toyota showed us a video about the robots they are currently trying to make. At the end of the video was a warm and fuzzy shot of a human family in their living room. The dad, mom, and son were shown sitting on their couch, while the dad lovingly ruffled his son’s hair. As the camera slowly panned out on the shot, it revealed a robot standing behind the family quietly and soulfully playing a violin. Then it showed another robot busily vacuuming the floor by the mother. Apparently this is Toyota’s vision of the nuclear family of 2020 (freakin weirdos).

After this, a Toyota robot came out (this one actually looked like a robot, not a human being) and started playing show tunes on his trumpet. Not a special robot-friendly trumpet mind you, A REGULAR TRUMPET. My friend, who ordinarily gives off this really “I’m cool and hip” vibe, lost it. Apparently robots bring out her inner dork. She became excitable, began quivering uncontrollably and started taking pictures with her camera-phone. It was like we were at a U2 concert, the robot was Bono, and she was an adoring fan. At one point I got worried she might rip off her shirt and scream “I LOVE YOU TOYOTA ROBOT! I FOLLOW YOU ALL AROUND THE COUNTRY! I NEVER MISS A SHOW!!!”

When the show finally ended she was on cloud nine and I was somewhere near cloud one.
The robot thing deeply perturbed me. If they have robots advanced enough to play trumpets, spontaneously crack jokes, and coyly bat their perfectly curled eyelashes at men, what else have they developed? This means they have MORE robots out there that can do other advanced things that they aren’t showing us. Like robots that can arm an AK-47 quicker than you can say “Terminator 2.”

It’s not that robots are inherently evil. It’s all about software. Robots run on software. And all it takes is some overeager computer programmer who is mad at the world (because his purple haired girlfriend left him for a dumb jock) to create a virus that will turn all robots against humans and decimate all of humanity. You may laugh at me now and say I watched “I, Robot” too many times, but come 2048 when your nanny robot starts spitting bullets at you from her red eyes after you tell her you hate her pot roast, you’ll remember that I warned you.

Say NO to Robots!

(Did I really just write an entire blog post about robots? I don't know who I am anymore....)


Image credits:
http://www.innovationcanada.ca/29/images/robots_z.jpg

The New Surburban Street Drug: Advil PM

YESTERDAY after a colossal pounding headache, an unexpected pricey gym cancellation fee (I knew the gym took my withdrawal too calmly), and an unwarranted $300 phone bill from a crappy cell phone company I quit a month ago that shall go unnamed (SPRINT you are going down, even a monkey with nunchucks instead of law books could fight this case in court and win it for me), I knew one solution that could temporarily fix all my problems: Advil PM.

Since I didn’t have any, I asked a friend (whose name shall be withheld for character preservation purposes).
Friend: Sure, I have some.
Me: Oh great! Can I please have one?
Friend: How much are you willing to pay?
Me: Pay? For Advil??
Friend: No, for Advil PM. They don’t sell Advil PM on the shelves of Target anymore; Advil PM pills have street value now.
(All we needed to complete the scene was a dark street corner, me twitching like a junkie, and gun shots going off in the background).

She decided not to charge me, and proceeded to open a crinkled, gallon sized Ziploc bag half full of assorted pills. She offered one to me.
I eyed her suspiciously, accused her of becoming a budding drug dealer, and took the pill warily…all the while checking to make sure the pill was indeed Advil PM.

My first experience with Advil PM was a crazy one. I had taken two PM pills after enduring a horrible headache and I had every intention of waking up 3 hours later to attend a late afternoon cook out. Waking up was harder to do than I thought. Advil PM is beastly. To manage to get out of my bed was like wrestling with myself in a parallel universe. If sleeping beauty had popped two of those pills before the prince came to wake her up, it’s guaranteed she’d STILL be sleeping right now. The prince would have probably lost interest and gone after some younger, more attractive cartoon character with a surgically enhanced chest, like Esmeralda, and it would have completely altered the Disney movie landscape as we know it.

After forcing myself awake, I climbed in my car to make my fifteen minute drive to the cook-out residence. To cut a long and groggy story short: I thought I saw a vision of Vladimir Putin in a grass skirt seductively rolling his hips and pouring vodka on the windshield of my car and as a result, my vehicle and I almost ended up in a ditch on the side of the highway. Apparently an unmentioned side effect of Advil PM is hallucinations. (I did however, end up backing into a street pole later on that evening). Advil PM is not a drug for the faint of heart, but perhaps one for people with migraines and a yearning desire for a vivid imagination.

Bottom lime: Advil PM is the pharmaceutical industry’s little way of saying thank you to all their customers.
They’re saying: Thanks for supporting us! Thanks for letting us bleed you financially because we know you need these drugs even if you can’t afford them, and in return for your coerced loyalty and dependency on our products, we’ll give you a product that offers non-prescription headache relief and sweet dreams of Ralph Nader’s head on a naked baby’s body, performing the Soulja Boy dance in slow motion.

Picture Credits: Istock Photo

Friends Don't Let Friends Turn Into Election Werewolves

MY FAVORITE thing about Super Tuesday is how all the election crazies come out of the woodworks.
Yep, you know them… your ordinarily normal friends who become election werewolves: they change around election season and suddenly start forcing their red, blue, and purple candidates down your throat.

They don’t do it to your face…these days the transformation is usually done via email. One day you are emailing them about making a routine IKEA run together and suddenly, instead of the usual cordial reply, comes a radical political email dripping with a sense of urgency that doesn’t even remotely sound anything at all like your friend. Their words are so forceful and intense that you can even feel the spit flying off the text of their email and onto your face…almost as if they were spraying you in person.

It all starts when your sweet friend—probably named something like Cindy Jane—who ordinarily wouldn’t hurt a fly, suddenly sends out an email like:
“Please come to my “Vote Hilary” fundraising party and we can bake pink, bra shaped cupcakes together! If you don’t vote Hilary that’s okay…but know this: AMERICA WILL SELF-DESTRUCT INTO TINY PIECES IF YOU DON’T. THE STATES WILL SECEDE! HILARY IS AMERICA'S HEARTBEAT. SHE IS THE SOLUTION TO FIXING EVERYTHING THAT’S WRONG WITH THE WORLD. HILLARY IS OUR KEY TO PROSPERITY! WITHOUT HER THE DEATH OF DEMOCRACY IS IMMINENT.”

Then you think: “Wow…that was weird. I guess Cindy Jane’s gone off the deep end…this election stuff has really gotten to her. Oh well.” So you shake it off and check the next email in your inbox. This one is from your hipster friend Lotus who usually shares her green tea with you (which you hate, but pretend to like in order to grease the wheels of your budding friendship). This one says:

“Come join me by participating in a march for Barack. We will march like we’re marching for Martin Luther King Jr. We won’t drink water, we won’t stop, we’ll just keep marching… like we are in the army… but we’re not in the army…because we hate war…this is a peaceful march…but don’t let the peace part fool you… it’s still an intense march…It is imperative your knees come up really high in the air while marching…they need to touch your chin…otherwise you are just walking. And this isn’t a walk. It’s a march...for Barack.”So you’re like “Ummm…how will marching without any constant hydration accomplish anything for Barack? This march doesn’t even talk about his platform issues. Does Lotus even know that the march is taking place in Washington State, not Washington D.C.?”

Then you check your next email and it’s from someone nonpolitical like your grandmother. Relieved to escape some election pressure you eagerly read it and it says:

“Hey—It’s Grandma B! Don’t vote for Mitt. He has a secret agenda! When he becomes president he will close down all the soda factories in America because he doesn’t drink soda. Coca Cola and Pepsi are secretly funding all the other candidates to make sure Mitt doesn’t win. Join voices with the caffeinated beverage companies and the caffeine junkies of America. Do this for every fast-food place you love, every road trip you’ve been on, and every football party you've attended that wouldn’t have been a success without this delicious carbonated liquid! A vote for Mitt is a dagger in the heart of Diet Coke! Don’t do it child!”

When this election werewolf phenomenon happens to a good friend: immediately put them on your G-MAIL spam list. It’s the only way to keep them from infecting you. Your friendship with them can resume the day after the November elections; they all change back into normal citizens after that.

Photo Credits:
The Lawley’s, Flickr