Smarmoofus Spot

While browsing the news at Google today, I again came across an article that warrants some discussion.

‘Internet addiction’ linked to depression, says study

I admit this article acknowledges that the researchers did not claim a causal relationship between internet addiction and depression, so perhaps it was conducted well.  However, I am troubled by a basic assumption that seems to have been made: the researchers seem to deeply undervalue virtual contact.  Either the researchers or the reporter who wrote this article seems to state a dichotomous relationship between “meaningful friendship” and “virtual contact”.  Virtual contacts apparently cannot be meaningful friends.

Maybe because I have traveled about and met many of my virtual contacts face-to-face, I get a pass… maybe my friends are more worthy than the typical addict’s contacts simply because I’ve seen them in three dimensions on at least one occasion.  If so, how trivial would that distinction be?  What do you think, my virtual contact?  Are you glad that this serious issue was brought to my attention so maybe I will finally seek help, or are you insulted that anybody would challenge the significance of our friendship?  Is it time for intervention, or righteous indignation?

(If intervention comes in the form of a travel allowance, I’ll take it!  As always, Paypal to smarmoofus [at] gmail.com.)

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What can I say to make you understand?  I know what you want me to say, but since you’re so concerned with honesty, I won’t say that.  As difficult as it is for you to comprehend, I am happy.  I am complete.  I am at peace with the world and my place in it.  I don’t have to do anything, or know anybody, or think, or feel, or achieve the things you think are important for your life.  I have already accomplished what I needed to accomplish.  And I have had life figured out to my satisfaction for some time.

But that’s not good enough for you.  Instead of living your own life and leaving me alone, you insist that I should be unhappy, because you would be unhappy in my circumstances.  And you have gone out of your way repeatedly to try to make me unhappy.  You think I am a liar because I don’t display anger, sadness, or bitterness.   I don’t because I am not angry at my circumstances.  I am angry with you for telling me just how crappy I should be feeling.  You have insulted me time and time again, not just when you’re saying deliberately hurtful things, but when you express to me how miserable I should be feeling.  What you are saying is that my life is meaningless and that I am worthless, and I should just throw in the towel.  To that I have just two words for you.  Listen closely, because I’ll only say this once:  FUCK.  YOU.

Yes, I do wish I had been dealt a slightly different hand. But when you stop to consider the great accident that is everybody’s lot in life, you have to realize how absurd it would be to despair over a few details.  After all, it is only serendipity that put you in your family, in your country, your ethnic background, with your genetic makeup, and your socio-economic upbringing.  Fortunately for you, you did well in the sweepstakes of life.  Despite what you think, I feel I did fairly well, myself… not quite as well as you, obviously, but fairly well.  The difference between you and me is I appreciate what I have, while you are an angry, ugly, spoiled brat.

I could rail to your satisfaction against the Fates for putting the obstacles before me that I have faced, but what would that accomplish?  After I have shed all the tears you think I should shed to be “genuine”, I will still be me, and I will still be contained in this body, in this life, in this existence.  And in the end it is all going to just be gone, anyway…  So I decided a long time ago–long before you were born–that I would enjoy this ride as best I could in the vehicle I was given.  I’m in it for the journey, not the destination.  So stop slashing my tires!

It’s 55 time!  Okay, it was 55 time about three hours ago.  But better late than never, right, G?

“Everybody I’ve talked to has said such wonderful things about her… what happened?” she asked gently, but with genuine interest.
“She…” he began on a sigh, then paused to collect himself.  “She is wonderful: smart, funny, kind, resourceful…  She’s just wonderful.”  He grew quiet.
“So…?” she prompted.
“So, I don’t know… I just don’t know.”

Story behind the story:

It’s not women’s fault they can’t figure men out.  Men can’t figure men out.

 
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A little less than two months ago, I wrote a post about the trap Yahoo! had set for us on their homepage.  In “Access Liability on the Internet” (December 1, 2009), I discussed the new dynamic Yahoo! page with roll-over features which automatically display “quickviews” of different subjects.  While flashy and exciting webdesign, I was troubled by disclaimers that appeared on the QuickView panes (”This content may come from external websites and may not conform to your laws. You are fully responsible for your access to and use of this application and content.”).  It worried me that it was so easy to access difficult to avoid accessing information that Yahoo! then disclaimed, placing the liability on the user.

But I worry no more!  I visited the Yahoo! homepage today and discovered that they have changed the functionality somewhat.  Now instead of automatically opening the QuickView pane, hovering your mouse over the topic causes the site to offer the option of opening the QuickView, which you then have to click to accept.  You may read about how this works by clicking here, or just go to Yahoo! to see for yourself.  Also, for those of you who enjoyed the automatic QuickView display, never fear: you can change your default setting to automatically display the QuickView pane if you’d like.

It’s not often that I am impressed by a company’s response, but Yahoo! has done it.  Cheers!

Yes, I know, Erica: I’m a lawyer.

I almost forgot, G!  But here I am… without a prod, push, or poke!  Go me!

“You’ll come, wont you?” her friend asked.  “Please say you’ll come!”
Sarah hesitated, her emotions in turmoil.
Her friend paused. “Oh. Unless you don’t want to.  I mean… I understand.”
“No, I want to!” Sarah assured her.  “I just… he’ll be there.  With her.”
“Sorry,” her friend frowned.  “I don’t get him.  We’re all puzzled.”

Story behind the story:

A good friend is marrying my ex’s younger brother.  Need I say more?  I suppose this is not as bad as the time I was invited to the wedding of the guy I had my eye on… by the guy himself!  Nothing could’ve persuaded me to attend that one.  This one might be possible.  With moral support.  Maybe.

 
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My mother and I took my niece, Cierra, out for a playdate today.  First stop: Cici’s Pizza, for the all-you-can-eat buffet.  Cierra and I were playing and talking while my mother ordered, but Cierra heard my mother say, “Two adults, one child.”  Concerned, Cierra pulled me down close and said to me, in all earnestness, “[Smarmy], I think Grandma messed up.  She said two adults and one child… shouldn’t it be one adult and two children?  You’re a child, too… aren’t you?”

I was taken aback!  But after only a brief hesitation, I grinned big, nodded, and said rather loudly, “You’re absolutely right, Cierra.  I am a child.  Grandma, you messed up.”  And the manager who served us changed mine to the children’s price!  Go discount!

On the other hand, my niece thinks I’m a child.  I want to believe that means I’m doing everything right, but I can’t help wondering whether it really means I’m doing something wrong.

Fifty, fifty, fifty, fifty, fifty-five!  It’s 55 time!  Weee, fun!  (Love you, G!)

“I need to schedule my annual checkup.”
“Dr. Johnson has an opening March 11th.  Will 11:15 work for you?”
“But today is January 11th.  That’s two months away!”
“I’ll check if there’s a cancellation…” and there was a wait while she did.  “How about March 1st?”
She laughed incredulously, then sighed, “I’ll take it.”

Story behind the story:

I used to make all of my appointments for checkups at the same time of the year: GP, specialists, dental, vision. Originally, that time was September.  But slowly over the last eight years or so, they’ve been moving further and further apart.  My pulmonology appointment is always in mid-September, at least, because her office schedules the appointment for me and sends out an appointment card… then I reschedule if that date is not good.  But the rest of them I have to remember to do on my own.  And sometimes I forget to make the phone calls, so I find myself calling at about the time that I would ideally actually be seeing the doctor.  Two years ago, my cardiology appointment was in October.  Last year, January.  And this year,… it will apparently be in March.  I figure in a few more years it will have wound back ’round to September again.

 
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“For these tough economic times…” - Photo Date: March 10, 2009

It’s time, once again, for another installment of Mr. O’s new foody meme: Tasty Tuesday.  This week’s theme is yellow.  My submission for yellow also could have served for last week’s theme of toppings.  What is it?  Why… it’s…

Mustard!  Nom nom!

My interest in mustard was an abrupt development.   When I was a child, I would throw a typical childish tantrum if Burger King or McDonald’s got my order wrong, or if my parents “forgot” to order my burger without mustard.  Wiping it off doesn’t work.  No matter how little yellow residue you’ve left behind, we all know you can still taste it.  Yuck!

But then an odd thing happened.  I still hated mustard… couldn’t stand it.  But one day in my sophomore year of highschool, I was sitting in my sixth period honors geometry class and I suddenly realized I was hungry.  I mean, distractingly, who-gives-a-flying-flip-about-geometry?! hungry.  And, what’s more, I knew exactly what I wanted: a mustard burger.  That is, a full-size hamburger with lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, and mustard. Lots of mustard.  Me!  I hated mustard, and I wanted it so bad I couldn’t think straight.

So school finally ended, my mother met me out front (she often dropped me off and picked me up… I guess she was bored? I dunno, but I liked it), and as I climed into the only SUV we ever owned, I told her of my need.  She looked at me like she’d just picked up the wrong highschooler, but she said, “Uhh… okay.”  And we drove the couple of miles to the nearest Dairy Queen.  And so began my love affair with a condiment I had, to that day, spurned.  That day was the first time I ever consumed more than a junior hamburger (from any establishment) in a sitting.  I inhaled that full-sized burger with mustard.  Then I looked around for more food.  And my mother stared at me like I was crazy.

Now I eat mustard in all its varieties: stone ground, dijon, spicy brown, European, yellow American… I even enjoy mustard seed-encrusted roasted meats.  Whatever its form, I love mustard!   But it will always be associated with the color yellow.