Thursday, July 30, 2009 Part 6: Fun with Profile Taglines

For my profile tagline, I used a funny quotation my oldest friend once said to me about our younger years. Here are some of my favorite taglines from men wanting to get the attention of women:

maybe we can help each other

Help each other do what? Not die alone?

Wookin pa nub. all da wong paces. Wookin pa nub.
At least he remembers when Eddie Murphy was still funny.

Yes, I even have a brother.

Is he single too? Two for the price of one! Sign me up!

What's in your closet?

Skeletons. Is that the answer you were looking for? Or were you referring to my sexual orientation? It could be that he literally wants to know what's in my closet, in which case: clothes, my collection of vinyl, shoes, roller blades, a tennis racket, ironing board, photos, towels...

The Glass is Half-Full

If you have a full glass of water, and you drink half of it, half of it is now gone. Doesn't that mean you only have half left? Hence, the glass is half-empty. That's just the way I see it. I can't help it.

Dream out loud

How about I take a nap instead? My subconscious dreams are much more tantalizing than anything I ever dream up when I'm awake.

What are you having?

A massive heart attack?

Looking for the co-author to my life's Novel

Once upon a time, there was a putz who capitalized the word novel. The title of your novel is "Novel"? Maybe the cover of his book will be white with a light blue stripe down the side. Generic Life by Man. If you enjoy that, also read Book by Girl.

Aloha, Mr. Hand

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Learning about Cuba and having some food."
See, I can be a vessel for useless pop culture trivia too!

I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve it through not dying.

If you plan to be immortal, "not dying" is a good start, but unless you're planning to have your body frozen until such time that science may bring you back to life, chances are good that you're going to die, either through old age, cancer, heart disease, drowning, electrocution, getting hit by a car, choking, or perhaps your parachute won't open when you jump out of a plane. In any case, this 35-year-old man can expect a life-expectancy of about 50 more years if he's lucky. Make good use of your time, my friend. Your work will be all we have when you're gone.

Artist Seeks Muse.
This would be a great line, if in fact the rest of the profile suggested this person to be an "artist." He struggles after two sentences to come up with anything more than "1400 more characters." Writing an entire paragraph is more difficult and painful for this stunner than it is for a third grader. I think he needs more than a muse.

A Fool in the Rain...

It really doesn't rain much here in Southern California, so 95% of the time, I guess this guy is just a dry fool wishing for some precipitation.

I get up early to have my coffee on the roof before work and watch the light change.

So you're saying you get up at the buttcrack of dawn? I don't sleep in anymore, but I don't get up in the middle of the night. That's just crazy talk.



But Santa, I can explain!

Santa is a figment of your imagination, or didn't your mommy tell you that when you were ten? Stay on the naughty list all you want. No one will notice.

One hot candle just looking for the right match...

All together now. Deep breath and groooooooaaaaannnnnnn.

Once more unto the breach...

Hey, King Henry V, don't do Shakespeare. Just don't.

Charlie Kaufman meets Brian Eno

I think my head just exploded. That's one creative, freakish guy right there.

Light Skin is Back!

Was it ever missing?

Surely You Must Be Joking! No, and don't call me Shirley

Have you ever seen a grown man naked? Have you ever been in a Turkish prison?
Ha! Take that, Movie Quote Guy.

good man 4 good women

Tonto like women. Women make Tonto happy. Must have women. (Do you notice his use of plural? He's not looking for a good woman. He's looking for a whole herd of them.)

Creative artist, musician and hard body all rolled into one?

This sentence is in the form of a question, and the answer is a resounding, "Hell no." You should see the photos. He looks like he's wearing make-up in one of them (and not in the cool tranny way); in the other, he has a trampy girl on his arm. Is that a visual cue that if one gets involved with him, he expects threesomes? Classy, dude. Only one word comes to mind, but I can't say it because it's even too mean for me. Here's a hint: It starts with a "d" and ends with a "g", and "oucheba" is in the middle.


The Grammar Nazi

Tuesday, July 28, 2009 Part 5: Got Emotions?

No, I don't. I'm a robot. As is the case with Ryan Seacrest, new battery packs are inserted regularly into the spot where my spine should be. At night, my roommate hits the "off" button and stores me in the closet with the ironing board and dead hookers. Do I have emotions? Is that your tag line, buddy? Really?

After his headline, Captain Obvious tries to reassure his readers: "Don't think that I am weak, I am in a career that the weak get gobbled up." He also says, "There are many other layers, but you'll just have to find out."

Testy. Testy. One, two, three. Why would I think a total stranger is weak, and why would I care, honestly? I have nothing with which to venture a guess about this man's character, other than his defensiveness out of the gate, and his unwillingness to provide more details. I don't think I'll be finding out, as he suggests. I will just leave this tough, "stocky" guy alone.

I think it's bitter day at (and yes, I see the irony in that statement). Next up is a senior consultant who tells us about himself and then launches into this little tirade: "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm getting carried away. That's not what women want to hear. They want to hear about 20 inch rims on a new truck or about how I have so much money that I don't need to work..."

I could give two sh*ts about your chrome or your SUV. Are women really this materialistic? If so, I apologize on behalf of my gender because, while it's nice to have someone who takes care of me, love is never about money. Who hurt you? Your luggage is heavier than the 50 pounds allotted. You'll have to pay that extra $15 at LAX at the ticket counter. We'll just say our farewells at the security gate. Moving right along... "the desert rat," whom I am sure also has a truck, but with much smaller rims. He's looking for a good "lab assistant."

Oh dear. I guess the person who answers this call will have to agree to trek through the cacti into the middle of nowhere for some good old-fashioned experimentin'. I will bring the goggles I swiped from 7th grade shop class. You bring the microscope, slides and samples of whatever bacteria you plan to magnify (and spread?). Sounds like a swell date. Show me your Petri dish and I'll show you mine.

Tom "believes in karma" and "caramel."

Cute little play on words. Too bad I don't like caramel. Dark chocolate or bust.

He's "sarcastic" (bonus!) and "goofy" (I can hang with goofy) and has a "head full of useless trivia."

I see he was part of that dating profile drum circle I mentioned previously. It's an epidemic!

He wants a "girly girl" who "can also fend off an attack by angry ninjas. After all, angry ninjas are hiding everywhere."

I like this guy's sense of humor, but I don't really think of myself as a "girly girl," but if I came across a group of angry ninjas, I'd probably cry like one (a girl, not a ninja).

Wait, I thought zombies were hiding everywhere, not ninjas. At least that's what David Sedaris tells me, and I have to go with David on this one because, well, just because. Sorry, man.

I'm not sure what to think about Ed, whose first sentence is, "I am willing to move for the right person."

I have some advice for Ed about his desperate eagerness to open his dating pool to any woman in the continental United States. Be sure the person you fall for lives somewhere you are going to fit in. Take it from me. If he's not careful, one day he will find his Mission Viejo-bred butt in the land of humidity and rednecks, where there's rampant racism and a mindblowing lack of saltwater (Cough. The South. Cough. Cough.). Worse yet, it will be easier to find Waldo in Little Five Points than a decent margarita anywhere in the Land of Confederate Flags, one that doesn't leave a cheap after-taste reminiscent of sulfuric acid. There are plenty of lovely women in California and plenty of scrumptious Cadillacs on the rocks with salt here. Think locally, my friend.

That's my advice for the day.

The Grammar Nazi

Monday, July 27, 2009 Part 4: Life is like retractable pencils?

Retractable pencils? How so? You don't lead with that title and then not explain, Mr. Techie. He doesn't mention pencils once in his profile after the headline. Strike one. (Do you see the excitement on my face after almost two weeks of this nonsense? I don't know how much more I can take.)

Computer Boy continues, "I'm also very partial to good writing skills."

I may take back that strike. What else ya got?

"You'll get many extra points if your profile contains complete sentences with capital letters and punctuation...if you don't understand why that's important, then please move along with my blessing and sympathies."

Did I mention how much I love you? Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You took the words right out of my mouth. Base hit on the second pitch. Where have you been all my life, Mr. Software Company. My heart is skipping rope: Cinderella dressed in yella went upstairs to kiss a fella...

"But of course, all that pales in comparison to the really important things in life. Like pop culture trivia."

F*CK. You've been reading all the other boys' profiles, haven't you? Damn lemmings. You were just tagged out at second. And I had such high hopes. No, I will not take your little film quotes quiz at the end of your profile. That would mean I'd have to actually talk to you to get the answers. Who needs you when I have Google? By the way, "Two dollars" isn't really a sufficient quote. "I want my two dollars!" is more explicit, and yes, I've seen Better Off Dead too. Where's Lane Meyer when I need him? Or Lloyd Dobler, or Rob Gordon, or any other character John Cusack has ever inhabited? We want THAT guy with a boom box, a trench coat and some Peter Gabriel action.

How does one go from the game show host to "One Sober Male"? This photo-less chap "isn't too demanding emotionally."

Well, thank heavens for that. Look, there is absolutely nothing wrong with being sober. My hat is off to you as I sip my cab. Cheers. Lord knows I have spent exorbitant amounts of time in the last two decades babysitting more than one inebriated boy who has passed out on the sidewalk, puked in my car and fallen asleep on me. Literally. Come to think of it, I should get some sort of Medal of Patience and Stupidity. For real. But, leading with "One Sober Male" exudes dreariness; years of boredom flash before my eyes. Life is too short. Buh-bye.

Ralph is "an excercise in juxtaposition" (and bad spelling). He's a complicated cat, that one. In his profile photo, he too wears black sunglasses at his cubicle and throws up dual peace signs, as if to give the ladies a virtual, "Wass up?" (Wannabe gang guys are so hot.) He's "smart-ish, Slapnuts Funny and Attractive-ish." He "doesn't read but [he] is deceptively intelligent."

Let me get this straight. He's bright-ish, but the layperson wouldn't be able to tell just by, say, talking to him and becoming acquainted with him. Don't let that dumb-ish exterior fool you, girls. He'll make up for his lack of book smarts with his clever-ish wit that will make you want to punch him in the gnads. (That's what "slapnuts" means, right?) Forgive me if I want a man who has the ability to read. Is that asking too much? Ish.

The next guy is a "raconteur" and "gadabout" who is "in search of a better mousetrap."

Remember, he's the cat. We're the mice. His trap is a little rusty and he has run out of holey cheese with which to lure us. Did I mention he also didn't include a profile photo? (Do any women consider a guy without a photo? I'm just curious. Maybe I'm shallow and pessimistic, but when I see that default cartoon face with the empty brown eyes, I immediately envision the worst case scenario. Think
Vincent Schiavelli, only creepy. Surely Mr. Meow is better looking than the freak my mind conjures up.)

"I have a little bit of that 30-second game that you need in order to survive in the LA meat market."

I'm so done with games. In fact, I've never liked them, nor tried to play them, at least not effectively. Maybe that's my problem. Let's play this game: I'll be Tom. You be Jerry. Now run into that hole over there and find the swiss I left for you. Good mouse.

One more today, and then I promise to leave you alone: Keith is an actor.

In Los Angeles? No! Really? Get out! You know what David Cross says about transplants in Los Angeles? There are millions of people who are "all gonna make it." They "have so much talent. They were so good in their high school productions of Brigadoon and Annie." You know how many people David Cross thinks are going to make it? "Like 13." I hope Keith has a backup plan. He is, after all, 37.

Keith "dusts off pretty well. [He's] had his fair share of dinner parties, drinks, and schmoozefests."


Toward the end of his profile, he says, "I'm bored writing this. Are you bored reading it?"

Do you have to ask?

Yours forever,
The Grammar Nazi

Friday, July 24, 2009 Part 3: Now Showing for a Limited Time Only!

Jake, Jake, Jake. The "big and beautiful" wardrobe consultant with pouty lips and come-hither eyes doesn't want to "butter up" his profile. He's just looking for "somebody with a pulse and can walk upright."

Aim high, Jake. Aim high. The peach fuzz above that pucker just screams, "Free mustache rides," which would occur somewhere between trips to Vegas, Cancun and a Laker game. I'm rooting for you Jake. I really am. I'm also shaking my head, sighing.

Okay, after looking through nearly 130 profiles, I have noticed maybe two or three men who are obviously gay, which makes me wonder why, why, why they are looking for women? Please save yourself the anguish of living in the closet; throw the door open and be yourself! You'd be so much happier!

On that note, Paul is from Canada and was raised in the south. He claims to be the only person who says, "How y'all doin', eh?"

Okay, THAT was funny.

He's "intelligent, athletic, funny...oh and humble!"

And gay. Don't forget gay.

He "reads about philosophy and writes about fart jokes."

He was doing so well up until the word "fart" (and the part about him not being attracted to women). One should never use the word "fart" in a dating profile. It's not sexy and makes me think of Butthead.

Next up, we have another photo-free masochist. They are a dime a dozen here on, but this one is special. "I'm not a doormat but for the right woman and loving relationship i will do almost anything."

Is it wrong that the thing I focus on most in that sentence is the lack of commas and the lower case "i"? The grammar freak in me is more upset than the part of me who doesn't want a doormat in place of a man.

Mr. Submissive "seeks to fall in love with a woman in a female led relationship. If you aren't sure what this means or like the sound of it and wish to know more please write and I can explain it in more detail. It's not as strange or uncommon as you think."

No need to explain. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. I guess I better go through my storage bins and relocate my whip, handcuffs and leather bondage gear. I will be sure to bring him some knee pads on our first meeting. He should have just said, "Looking for dominatrix," and washed his hands of trying to pussyfoot around his little fetish. Not. If. You. Paid. Me.

Christopher leads with, "And the two caret diamond ring goes to..."

I only need to read the headline to know the kind of woman Christopher wants is a materialistic gold-digger. He has been living in Southern California way too long. It's sad to think he has to dangle that carrot (or carat) in front of the female masses to lure them in; he should be judged on his merits. (Okay, "judged" might be the wrong word.) Maybe he should go on The Bachelor. He'd find twenty-plus money-grubbers there without even trying.

"The woman that steals my heart will receive a two caret diamond ring assuming there is a wedding down the line."

Well, of course. Let's not assume. I wish him luck in his quest for a woman who is easily blinded by massive, sparkly baubles. Who needs love when you have diamonds, right? Wrong. If nothing else, I have learned money doesn't buy happiness. That is why I currently don't have any.

He closes with, "First of all PLEASE do not live with your parents; been there, done that, and I do not want to do it again."

I came in just under the wire. Phew.
On second thought, keep your ring, buddy. You're going to need it later.

It's intermission time! Popcorn and sodas are out in the lobby. The bathroom is through the first door on your right outside the theater. While you wait, here's a poem from Shawn, who has a goatee, bald head, dark sunglasses and a stoic face that does not match this ditty:

"tired of the old?
want something new?
(Why do you think I'm here?)
i'll be your friend,
(That's a good start.)
if you let me walk with you.
(That's all I have to do? Walk?)
i'll make you feel good.
i'll make you feel great.
(Isn't that what you just said?)
i'll be your best friend.
(Redundant much?)
or i coud be your mate.
(Aren't best friends mates? I'm confused.)
for me your values
you should not bend
(Good call.)
i would not ask that
from you my friend.
(There's that word again. Points for originality.)

so if you like
we can sit back and chill some wine
(You tell 'em, Smoove B.)
to spend some time
just cause theres no place to go
(Now you're just not being very resourceful. I'm sure we could think of somewhere to go.)
turn down the lights
(Slow down, Turbo. I've never even met you.)
turn up the radio
(Corporate radio still sucks.)
lets just take it slow
(But you just said something about turning down the lights.)

like to hear from you."
(Girl, he'll be waiting for your call.)

My head hurts.

Love always,
The Grammar Nazi

Thursday, July 23, 2009 Part 2: Let's cut through the froth!

On, Mr. Lather wants to "cut through the froth!" He appreciates what life has given him, like being able to feed cattle on a ranch.

Okay, mentioning "froth" and "cattle" in close proximity only makes me think he's playing Russian Roulette with Mad Cow Disease. If he's spending a lot of time feeding bovines that are foaming at the mouth, I think I want to stay away from him. Either that, or I'll be brave and sport my Hazmat suit on our first date at Starbucks. (Insert Darth Vader breathing sounds here.)

He's not looking for anything serious. He just wants to "cut into [your] leisure time" with a smidgen of "fun."

I think this is thinly veiled code for, "I want to get laid." By the way, did you notice his overuse of the word cut? The line forms to the left. You first.

Roger works for the government and has anger management issues. He does not say so in so many words, but I know a 'roid-rager when I see one. "I've never hit a girl, Mom and Dad said you don't do that."

Mr. Run-on Sentence only abstains from smacking chicks around because his parents said he shouldn't. If it hadn't been expressed verbally when he was a child, he surely would be clocking you one at the least bit of provocation. See that shiner? I got that from falling down. And hitting a doorknob. After I tripped. Yeah, that's it.

He follows up Mom and Dad's words of wisdom with this little gem: "I get angry sometimes, but I snap out of it really quick," and "I'm unable to carry a grudge for very long (hours), even if I really, really try."

He wants to hate you. He really, really does, but darn it if his softer side doesn't seep in there ever so slowly after he throws the couch across the room. "I'm sorry, Doll Face. I promise not to do it again." Until the next time you FOLD MY PANTS THE WRONG WAY! That's what the creases are for. Can't you do anything right?

I do have to agree with one statement this exotic dancer-dating, buzz-cut sporting beefcake makes: "I believe that when a couple's sex life is great, it makes up 30% of the relationship. Yet, when it's bad, it makes up 70% of the relationship."

That sounds about right. Next!

Here's a short and not-so-sweet one: Mr. Creepy Bedroom Eyes asks, "Are you looking for me?" The puffy, boozy red face smiles and says, "Maybe over a nice wine?" (Keep in mind he doesn't bite and is fully house trained.)

Um, no. Thanks though.

Next profile. Here's someone we can all get behind. If you gave him $10,000, he'd "most likely spend it on experiences rather than things, travel and fun rather than buying crap to fill [his] house up."

Tyler Durden, is that you? Where's your IKEA home nesting instinct? Smack my ass and call me Marla! I think we've got ourselves a keeper. I always wanted to learn how to make soap. Oh wait. What the heck is 'quince paste' and why would I want to put it on crackers? Moving on.

Oh, man. If Mike from the last post screams serial killer, Steve exudes stalker with a capital S. "Had we but world enough and time..."


He usually "keeps [his] mouth shut," but he doesn't "suffer fools gladly."


Steve is "fiercely independent" (read: loner), and wants a woman who "understands that men and women are fundamentally different." (Read: He'll remind you of your place, Woman.) He hates "games and manipulation" and doesn't want a woman who "uses sex as a weapon."

That's a shame because I think of sex as a ball-peen hammer with which to smack men over the head. Methinks this one has had a few too many bad experiences that might inhibit him from having a healthy relationship. Wouldn't you say?

Finally, he wants a woman who is "fed up with posers, the pretty boys, the bruisers, the jocks, the frat boys, the lounge lizards, the hippies, the metrosexuals, the rednecks, the bad boys, the sports fans, the freaks, the communists, etc."

Wow, somebody was wedged into a couple lockers and dunked in a few toilets in junior high. He's that silent type who always does his work and never bothers anyone - until one day, his rage envelops him and he explodes like a mushroom cloud. Don't piss Steve off. Who knows what he's capable of?

Brian does "whatever [his] rice crispies tell [him] to!"

Snap, crackle and pop?

If you "put [him] in a cardboard box, [he] will find a way to have fun!"

That works for two-year-olds at Christmas, but I'm not sure about 37. I think he needs to talk to Steve, whom I'm sure would gladly pack and ship Brian just for sporting that goatee and trendy backwards black hat. Steve hates bad boys and is wringing his hands in the corner. Watch out!

The Grammar Nazi Part 1: Are they kidding me?

Ethan is looking for someone who is a "mixture of Parker Posey, Bettie Page and Audrey Hepburn."

That's a tall order for someone who has no photo in his profile.

He is "hoping to meet someone so hot that they make me sexist."

Huh? What does that even mean? But wait, it gets worse...

"Someone that would dress up as a french maid and clean my apartment for my birthday, paint themselves red with a tail and horns ala a Coop devil girl..."

There is so much wrong with that poor, grammatically incorrect excuse for a sentence; I don't even know where to begin. One word comes to mind: FREAK! If this is any indication of the single men in my area, I'm in big trouble. But he does have a clean police record, and doesn't use any needle drugs, so sign me up! Maybe my standards are too high.

I have been on for nine days and have never done online dating. I am quickly realizing why. The three months I pre-paid will seem like infinity. In slightly more than a week, I have read and deleted 117 profiles, and one guy has deleted me. Some of these men in the Greater Los Angeles area have been "interested" in me based on my profile, and some of them are suggestions based on the initial personality test I took when I signed up. (That part was really cool, by the way. I'm a Negotiator/Explorer. Nifty.)

Granted, not all these men are whack jobs, but the vast majority are one straight jacket away from a padded room. I'm fairly certain the ones who don't belong in the looney bin all got together at a Daters Anonymous meeting and wrote their profiles together because 90% of them rate pop culture useless trivia as one of their finer attributes. I find useless pop trivia amusing, but really? All of them? Plus, while sitting around in a drum circle, they all decided they weren't one of those "bad boys" your mom doesn't want you to bring home. They are the "nice" guys; the ones who finish last, but are worth the wait. Again, really? All of them?

Also, newsflash, Boys: If you are barely literate, please, please, please have someone proofread your profile for you. Nothing spells lovin' like a physician who calls his profile an "add" instead of an "ad."

Here's an initial smattering of my favorites:

Derrick advises you to "CalmDownAlready" in his headline because yeah, my panties are in a wad over a rotational mold manufacturer (what is that?) who proclaims he was "born upside down" and that is the "reason [he] sees the world side ways." He wants a woman with "tons and tons of money..." You must also have "a boat and motor" and "cook like a 5 star chef." To top it off, he wants to see a photo of your boat and motor.

Ladies, if you own a sailboat, Derrick won't have you. He wants to see that motor, damn it! Never mind what you look like or what kind of person you are. He is an open freeloader who knows a good wake when he sees one. Don't worry. If he doesn't hit you up on the Internet, you can find him on Labor Day weekend at Parker Dam in Arizona slipping beer bongs to twelve-year-old girls. Now where did I put my bead necklaces...

Mike is a first-rate serial killer. He wears dark shades in his fuzzy profile photo because he doesn't want you to see the evil in his eyes until you are safely strapped to a chair in his basement. Three letters: G, H and B. His tagline is "NA." (Nah?) As in not applicable, or Narcotics Anonymous, or Not Able to return home once he gets his nasty paws on you. He lists his job as "data warehousing." I want to know how many bodies are in the "warehouse." He states, "I am attracted to and respect strong, intelliegent women as long as they don't have a chip on their shoulder. They need to realize that intimacy requires dropping their guard occasionally."

Girls, don't drop your guard for a second. You might find yourself gagged and bound. And yes, he did misspell intelligent. Would I talk to him? Nah. Would I date him? Nah. Am I moving onto the next profile and deleting him? Yep.

Matt attempts humor, feebly, but I give him brownie points for effort. However, the first sentence in bold says, "I rarely wear underwear." TMI, Clown Boy. That's something I'd rather know later. He was "beaten out for the last spot on People magazine's 50 most beautiful people by Queen Latifah," and his American Idol audition "didn't go so good." He also has an "abnormally large uvula."

You know what they say about large uvulas. Wink wink. Nudge nudge.

He can "tell the day by the bottle he drinks."

Monday: Absolut Citron; Tuesday: Jack Daniels; Wednesday: Oh Captain, My Captain; Thursday he takes a break with a 40 of Olde English 800; Friday he gets crazy with Tanqueray; By Saturday, he's so wrecked, he'll drink just about anything, and Sunday is
Bloody Mary day. Hair of the dog, baby.

He's also a "cowboy, on a steel horse [he rides]..."

Sigh. Bon Jovi circa 1986? I didn't even like them back then. A reference to them now is sad. Just sad.

In his photo, Matt is squinting into the sun, so much so that we can't even tell what he really looks like.

I think he needs to borrow Mike's shades.

More to come...

The Grammar Nazi

P.S. I haven't logged into facebook for almost two days, so here are some status updates as I await my release from FB prison:

Chelsey drives men to drink.
Chelsey daydreams about how to say the thing she cannot say.
Chelsey says, "What is 2nd base these days anyway? I'm not even sure."
Chelsey says, "Adam's monkey toes are surprisingly strong."
Chelsey wants to log into facebook to see what she's missing, but she will wait until Friday afternoon.

Monday, July 20, 2009

Was it something I said?

On Thursday night, facebook dubbed me a spammer.

With no prior warning, I received this message:

"You are blocked from making wall posts due to continued overuse of this feature.
Your failure to comply with an earlier warning has resulted in this block.

Please note that this block is temporary and can last anywhere from a few hours to a few days. Facebook cannot lift this block for any reason. Please be patient and refrain from using this feature for a few days.

Continued misuse of facebook's features may result in your account being permanently disabled."

It is now Day 5 of not being able to comment on any status updates, post any wall messages, upload any photos and otherwise use facebook for its original intention: social networking with my friends.

Having read their not-so-helpful "Help" menu, I have deduced that I was posting comments excessively and quickly, which set off an automatic alert to shut me down. My friends were also quite prolific on my wall that day, as we were writing about my experiences wading through the rejects of At the time I was blocked, about ten of us were laughing hysterically in our respective homes. While we made fun of total a-holes - deservedly so, I might add - my roommate said karma would come back to haunt me. It didn't take long for him to be right.

I have since emailed the elusive FB admins to find out what I need to do in the future to prevent such an occurrence. They have not responded, nor does their Help menu suggest how much is too much. In fact, it states there is "no way" to let someone know this information.


Five days (and counting) of being prevented from using facebook in all its glory isn't a big deal, one might say. It isn't. For a normal person. But I'm not a normal person. I'm a full-fledged FB addict, and I am not ashamed to admit it. This is the reason I balked for so long and didn't join, even when people kept telling me I should. I was never on myspace, and I fought the urge to join crackbook for a couple years, until everyone I talked to starting asking me, "Are you on facebook?" When it happened twice in one week, I said, "Fine." That was last October.

I spent 35 years and four months happily not on facebook. Now, after nine months, I'm not really sure how I survived before. I currently have 257 friends, including elementary school camrades, high school buddies, best friends, my mom, my dad, my sister, my sister's husband, my infinite list of cousins and second cousins, people I only know from facebook whom I've never met, new friends I met on facebook whom I now see in person, friends of friends, one ex-boyfriend and some of his friends, former students, college friends, a girl who has my exact name and spelling, coworkers and former coworkers, members of bands I like, and a guy I met on a plane once.

If it weren't for crackbook, I wouldn't have been reunited with old pals and wouldn't be abreast of everything going on with pretty much everyone I know on a daily basis.

I'm not one to take a bunch of silly quizzes or vent my frustrations with government action and inaction, as others do. I don't play Mafia Wars. I don't till a farm in Farmville. I don't send people "requests," nor do I use the site for any other "applications." I do, however, write on it more than the average person. So you can imagine my dismay at being on lockdown.

My friends have started a "Hey Facebook, Un-Ban Chelsey" group, in which 29 people are currently members. I don't think the admins will listen, but even when I am "reinstated" as a fully functioning participant, I will be cautious because I don't want my account shut off.

In the meantime, I have always wanted to start a blog, and I figured this was the best time to do it. I can use this space to expand on my "status updates," instead of relying on the site that will continue to think I'm a spammer.

And maybe if I ween myself from crackbook, I will stop thinking in the third person all day long:
"Chelsey is going to the store."
"Chelsey is reading."
"Chelsey says, 'F that!'"
"Chelsey wants chocolate."
"Chelsey needs..."

You get the idea.

The Grammar Nazi