10 Ways to Quit Being a Creeper

Back in the late 1800s, serial killers are what used to frighten people, due to that whole Jack-the-Ripper thing. In this day and age, people are frightened of "creepers" and "stalkers." On-line creepers and stalkers is a frequently used term to describe someone who knows too much about somebody else. Off-line creepers and stalkers exist as well, and they are the more frightening types, as they usually are in close proximity to your actual being and there is not 100 miles of distance and a computer screen between the two of you. But never mind that, you don't want to be referred to as an on-line creeper.

In order to lose the nickname "On-line Creeper", or more specifically "Facebook Stalker," these are the things you should stop doing:

1) Collecting hair samples. You can't really do this on-line, but if this is something you do, YOU NEED TO STOP, so that is why it is number one on the list.

2) Having alerts on your phone that notify you each time a person has activity on their Facebook page.

3) Learning through the Stalkee's events that they are going to be at a certain place at a certain time, and so you also appear there, even though you weren't invited. Coffee shops and restaurants provide what you think may be a "coincidental" moment, but when you start going for an evening jog by your stalkee's grandma's house on Thanksgiving, that screams I AM GOING TO KIDNAP YOU AFTER YOU EAT PIE.

4) Hacking other people's e-mail accounts so you can learn more about them and the people they converse with.

5) Setting a stalkee's profile picture as your desktop background.

6) Memorizing all of the information provided on the "Info" section of their FB account. Saying that you have a photographic memory does not lessen the creep factor.

7) Normally I would say that documenting people's fingerprints is creepy, unless of course they willingly and knowingly stick their thumb in the ink. I happen to have a fingerprint stamp on my fridge of a "suspect", not because I am a stalker, but because I am a detective and need to gather evidence in order to protect my friends.

8) Creating a fake Facebook profile to friend request some one, because you don't want them to know it is really you. This is by far the creepiest thing you can do.

Hopefully if you are often subject to being stalked, you are not a moron and can tell that when some hot foreign guy from Ireland sends you a request saying "Your profile picture is very creative" you know that he actually is probably the 40 year old man from the gym that grins way too much. Don't get sucked in by accents. You can't hear them on Facebook anyway.

9) Somehow finding out the stalkee's phone number, and then texting them things like "hey, I don't have your address, can you tell me what it is so I can mail you something?" Of course when they say "Who is this?" You reply with some name of a person they know, claiming you have a new number. If you are successful in this creep activity and actually acquire their home address, DO NOT DRIVE BY. This is why people call you a stalker, and you need to stop these shenanigans.

10) Actually mailing something to the person's house if you happen to discover their address through whatever measures. If you mail cash or gift cards, then that is okay and you should probably start stalking me. Text me an address request and I'll pretend to play dumb. If, instead, you mail any sort of inappropriate anything (especially anthrax or underwear), then you may end up in handcuffs. Don't say I didn't warn you. If you are not sure if something is inappropriate or not, you can message me and ask. I will be brutally truthful with you, and probably will end up posting your e-mail on this blog. 

Additional information: Reading/checking someone's blog every day is not considered "blog stalking." It means you like reading the person's blog. The author probably likes that sort of thing. If they didn't want readers, they wouldn't post. Or they'd write everything in code. If they didn't want YOU as a reader, they'd set their blog to private and not invite you to access it.

Adventures with Gram

For some reason the draft of this post got forgotten about, and I am just now publishing it. It was from the first part of April, so whoops. But I swear to you, you're gonna love this.

My cousin Grace and I went to visit our Gram during spring break last month. I came back two pounds heavier because of all the food she made me eat, but my abs were also sore due to the side-splitting laughter that ensued every fifteen minutes. I've documented some of the conversations for your entertainment. 


While looking at some of the little rocks Gram keeps in a fancy dish on the table
Grace: Hey Gramma, I remembered to bring you a hand lens (to look at rocks with).
Gram: Oh you did! Then I will share my dental picks with you.
Grace and I look at Gram and pause. Because you know,when someone offers to share their dental hygiene materials with you, there's not a lot you can say.
Gram: They're for cleaning rocks.
Oh, it all makes sense now. Sort of.

The first night that Grace and I were there, we made a list of all the things we wanted to do during our stay. Authentic rock-hounding was out of the picture, as the weather was still way too wet. We didn't want Gram's Jeep to get stuck in the mud while we were off-roading, because Leon (Gram's hubby) already said he wouldn't come save us.
Gram: Okay, well let's see. We can climb Smith Rock.
I add it to the list because I am the record keeper.
Gram: And did you girls want to go see Great Grandpa Pitman?
Grace: Yes.
I add it to the list.
Gram: We could go to the Prineville Forestry Center. They have a real nice case of rocks...
Grace and I lift our eyebrows at each other.
Me: That we could steal?
Gram: Heavens no! To look at!
Me: Good point. I left most of my disguises at home.

My 70 year old grandmother kicked my butt hiking up. She'd climb Smith Rock every day if she had someone to go with her, which is the exact reason I limited my stay to three days.

Here's Gram, Grace, and me in front of Monkey Face. I swear my legs are not as short as they look. It's because our photographer was standing on a hill. I am fully five feet tall.

Later, as we were driving back from our long day at Smith Rock, Gram (who is driving) turns to me and says, "I want you girls to sign the back of our parking pass so I can keep the memento with my box of grandchild adventures." She points to the parking pass that is placed on my side of the dash. I try to reach it but can't since my arms are too short and I'm still buckled up. I figure I'll grab the slip when we park. Gram is at the wheel and she is too impatient for me. While driving, she reaches over towards me, starts to unbuckle herself and says "Oh here, let me get it." I make a terrified expression because at the very beginning of the day Gram told me and Grace that she wasn't going to talk to us very much because she needed to concentrate on her driving (which was true). A second later Gram bursts into laughter and says "Haha! Gotchyou!" She was playing a trick on me. "You should have seen your face! You really thought I was going to do that!" Grace, who is in the back seat, starts to chuckle, and I laugh a bit as well, but part of me still thinks she was seriously going to unbuckle herself while driving and reach for the paper. I think that once she saw my face she just passed it off as a joke. I'm not really sure. But she about died laughing, which caused a bit of swervature in her driving anyway. Good thing we were on the gravel road near her house.

The second day we drove into Prineville. On our way there, Gram points down a remote road. It looks like the sort of place you might go to try a shortcut, but you'll end up thirsty and dying in the desert while rattlesnakes and scorpions poison you instead.
Gram: Did you know Facebook moved out here to the tulies?
Grace is in the front seat and she turns to look at me. We both are surprised because why would Gram know about Facebook? And why in the world would they move to the middle of no-where central Oregon? Surely Gram must not know what she's talking about. Grace plays it off carefully to test Gram's knowledge.
Grace: What's Facebook?
Gram: (peels of laughter plus a snort) Facebook! Surely you girls know what Facebook is!
Grace: But I thought they were located in California. Why would they move here?
Gram: Cheap land? I don't know. But I guess all the people who work there are hip city people who live in Portland and commute.
Me: They drive three hours to work everyday? And then go home?
Gram: I think they stay in a hotel during the week and then go home on the weekends. They're city people, you know? It's hard for them to be out here.
Grace and I ponder a bit more and discuss, but neither one of us really believes the Facebook is moving out to the boondocks.

We got to the pioneer museum, which is located inside an old bank building. I kid you not, on the front of the museum door is a blue flier that reads "Welcome Facebook!" So it has to be true. Grandma is a lot more up-to-date with the world than I thought.

We looked at all of the old-timey stuff that the museum had. When we got upstairs, there was a medical room. It had really terrifying things like a metal cervical dilator. Basically, the medical room supplied all the props needed to film a horror movie targeted at women.

Sorry the picture is blurry, but I was shaking with fear.

This is a vaginal spectrum AKA the most horrifying thing you could ever imagine! Also, another reason to keep your legs clamped shut.

We later went back downstairs and broke into the vault, but the money was already gone.


We stopped at a gas station and Gram bought Grace and me Megabucks tickets. She said that we had to win so that we could take care of her in her old age. After that we had to stop at Safeway for a few things, and Gram backed her Jeep up into a parking spot. Grace and I didn't have to get out to know the vehicle was straddling the white line and hogging two spaces. "Uh, Gram, do you think maybe you should try that again?" But what she does is kind of chuckle and say, "Oh, if they just get a look at me they'll understand!" So what Grace and I do is sort of walk out of the parking lot real fast so that no one can see which vehicle we came from.

Grace captured the evidence on camera.

Later we went to visit my great-grandpa, who is 92 years old. He lives with his wife in a manufactured home community for old people. All the curbs along the sidewalks are sloping, so that way the old people can get their walkers and wheelchairs up easily. It also means it's a lot easier for a car to drive up onto the sidewalk by accident. But it's not like that happened.

As we were pulling into his driveway, my grandma was telling me how a lot of the  land adjacent to his property used to just be barren fields, and my great-grandpa liked to go out with his rifle and shoot rock chucks for sport. I told her that I remembered when it was like that, because my family had visited Grandpa Pitman when he first moved to central Oregon. Gram continued, "Then the housing development came in and spoiled his fun. Now he has to be sneaky and shoot rock chucks out the bathroom window."

This is what a rock chuck looks like. Before Gramps gets to it.

We visited with my Great-Gramps, who was of course wearing his favorite purple western style shirt with black suspenders. I thought I had a picture of it, but I guess not.

This photo is from his birthday two years ago, but I'm pretty sure those are the same suspenders he always wears. That's my Gram (his daughter) standing next to him.

We hugged Grandpa Pitman good-bye and went home to Gram's house. On the way, Gram told us how she worried about Grandpa, because he still thinks he can do whatever he wants. For example, at 92 years old, he recently climbed a ladder to trim a branch of a tree, even though Gram said she'd do it for him. He likes to be independent though. I just hope he doesn't hurt himself.

Our last adventure was driving up to the reservoir so we could dig for rocks. Unfortunately, we didn't find much because the water was up so high. All I ended up finding were two action figures who had their faces buried in the dirt. I rescued them and brought them home. I am pretty sure one of them was meant to be Hulk Hogan. Since we didn't get to go bonafied rock-hounding during spring break, I am hoping to get back over there sometime this summer so that I can spend more time with Gram and dig for precious rocks.

how Pinterest is semi-exclusive (like Facebook used to be)

There's this completely stellar website called Pinterest that lets you make digital collage boards of things you love. The day my account was activated, I spent at least five hours on the site.

But first, an introduction that will probably seem unrelated but I swear it is.

Do you remember when Facebook used to be only for college students? You had to have a legit university email in order to get an account. It was exclusive. I think this helped keep the riff-raff off of Facebook. Everybody you were friends with had to be a college student. Now, it's not to say that there are not plenty of intelligent people who didn't go to college. There are many. They are making more money than me right now. But then, let's be honest, there are the not-so-smart people who didn't go to college, either. Because it does take a least a shred of intelligence, commitment, or parental over-bearance in order for a person to get into college. So Facebook helped keep out some of the morons. You know, the ones who send you 45 vampire requests a week? Or the ones who list Farmville as one of their hobbies on a resume?

Well, Pinterest is kind of like that. In order to have your own Pinterest account, you have to be invited. This fact alone makes you sound elite, discounting the fact that you can request an invitation from the Powers That Be.

I think it's pretty safe to say that a large majority of people who have Pinterest accounts are creative/artistic/aesthetically inclined. Because why would you have a pin board if didn't? I have pin boards because I love gazing at beautiful things (like your face), and I enjoy pinning photos of lovely spaces and clever ideas. I am a maker. So I believe that most people on Pinterest are makers too.

It's like men with mustaches. While it's true that there are some very upstanding or distinguished fellows have mustaches, it's also true that most criminals have mustaches. I would venture to say that most clean-shaven men are reputable, while nearly all shady people have mustaches. I mean, how many criminals have you seen printed in the paper who have mustaches? A lot. It's because these crooks think it makes a good disguise, because they can just shave it off after they rob the bank or whatever. I am not saying that most men with mustaches are sketchy. I am saying that a large percentage of dishonest men do indeed have mustaches. If you are a crook, chances are you have a 'stache.

Let's recap this post:
*Old, exclusive, college-only Facebook helped keep the riff-raff out.
*Most shady men have mustaches.
*People who have Pinterest accounts are creative and keep their eyes peeled for beauty.

And now, some lovely things for you to gaze at. I present to you the pin boards I have made via Pinterest. Click on that little red button to go there.

In defense of Twitter

So when Twitter started, I thought it was pretty dumb. But I read a lot of blogs, including the blogs of my favorite published authors, and they all had Twitter. Some days they wouldn't post any new blog content, but they were so clever and witty and utterly fascinating that I wanted to know what they were up to. Thus, I made a Twitter account just so I could keep track of them.

The difference between Facebook status updates and Twitter is, if you sign up to follow someone on Twitter, you are admitting that you actually think it's interesting what they do throughout their boring day. On Facebook, people's lame status updates just plague you, and you can't really control it. I feel like you can't really criticize Twitter, because if you think someone's posts are lame, you just don't follow them. Don't have a Twitter account.

While mentioning Facebook and lame status updates, I would like to make a short tangent on the topic of "vague-booking." This is a term I heard my clever friend, Leslie, use last Thursday. Vague-booking is when you post really vague or cryptic status updates, such as "My heart hurts so bad. When will this be over?" Because you are aching to tell us you just broke up with your boyfriend. Or someone might say "Only 476 days left until my life changes!" Okay, so what is happening? Might as well tell us. Do us a favor and stop the vague-booking.

Back to the Twitter subject.

I follow a total of 26 people on Twitter, most of whom are my favorite published authors or bloggers. I follow a few musicians so I know when they are doing new songs or whatever, and that's it. I do not understand the people who follow like, 689 people. Like you actually are reading what they write. The people who follow a thousand people just want a thousand people to follow them.

At first I would only read other people's Twitter updates. But then I started tweeting a bit myself. You know, like a little blue bird. I figured, if anybody is actually following me, hey, they signed up for this. It's not like I'm annoying you on your Facebook News Feed every five hours.

I then put my Twitter feed on the side bar of my blog, so that way on the days I am too lazy/busy to post, I can say something on Twitter. Because everyone has that one stalker reader who is dying to know what is happening, so I had to feed them something. I mean, that was the whole reason I joined Twitter. I couldn't get enough of my favorite clever authors. So maybe there is some reader out there who is just utterly fascinated with my daily happenings. If you don't care, then just skip over the side bar. I do sometimes.

This is basically my lead in to tell you that I may start using Twitter a lot more. I finally caved to the technological communication of this world and added a texting plan to my cell phone. Then I figured out how to send Twitter updates from my phone. Now when I'm someplace without a computer and internet, I can let you know what is happening. I am sure you are just dying to find out everything. My first mobile tweet was done in the waiting "relaxation" room before I got my massage on Friday. The lights were all dim and nature sounds were playing, but all I could think about was how I didn't want to forget that Drew told me about how he watches Jersey Shore and Snooki was really drunk on last night's episode or whatever. I think it's terrible that a 4th grader watches Jersey Shore. But it's also 1% funny. Anyway, as I am texting in the relaxation room, I start to think about Sophie Kinsella's character from Undomestic Goddess, and how she's so obsessed with work that she sneaks her Blackberry with her under the sheets when she's at the spa. But the masseuse will have none of it.

I don't take my phone with me to the massage table. I'm not that Twitter dependent.

He looks like a moron

Karina: All of my boyfriend's Facebook photos make him look like a moron.
Me: Really?
Karina: Yeah, but I swear he's super hot in real life.
Me: Hmmmm.
Karina: In his photos he always has his eyes half closed, or he's wearing some stupid outfit, or his tongue's hanging out.
Me: I don't really know what to say.
Karina: We've been dating for like, 7 months, but three weeks ago he requested to be my boyfriend on Facebook. I ignored it, and I told him I don't like to publicize my relationship status. But really, I just didn't want my friends who don't know him in real life to click on the link and see what a moron he looks like in all his pictures.
Me: But you think he's super hot in person.
Karina: Oh my gosh yes, he's gorgeous. I'm always afraid other girls are out to nab him from me.
Me: Interesting.
Karina: I'm secretly a little bit relieved when girls friend request him on Facebook, because then what they have stuck in their memories are photos of him looking like an idiot. And then I get to keep him all to myself.
Me: I have this feeling you probably shouldn't tell any of this to him.

Another Good Detective Story

          “Good detective work is of the utmost importance,” I say to my receptionist as she is typing away at her desk. “The most important thing is to be aware of all the clues around you. Like eggs hidden for an Easter egg hunt, they are waiting to be gathered. You’ve just got to look in the right spot.”

            “But how do you know where to look?” Ginger asks me.

            “First off, you have to be aware of what normal looks like. Like, does Mr. Smith always leave work at 5:10pm? When you are driving to school in the morning, do you always pass the armored truck driving south on Hwy 22? Is young Alexanders’s profile picture typically of him wearing a mustache?”

            Alex, or young Alexander as I referred to him, is Ginger’s crush.

            “You must be aware of what is routine, what is normal, what is regular, and then you must notice when it changes. Only when you figure out that something is different can you start to determine the cause. Most of the time, it’s very logical.”

            Ginger nods at me.

            “But darling, we must get to work. That’s how any detective improves. By doing. Any new e-mails today?”

But first, before the e-mails, a profile on Ginger:

            A college freshman, she works for me part-time three days a week. I was reluctant to hire her on account of how her name makes it sound like she’s a stripper, but I figured if that were at all true, I should save her from a future of poles and nightly one-dollar bills, and I ought take her under my wing. Besides, Ginger is completely unlike her name. For one, she has black hair. Ginger is secretly in love with Alex McCall, who also attends the nearby university. I often catch Ginger reading his Facebook profile instead of doing the internet research I ask. Even still, she is a pretty adept receptionist. 

Ginger likes to read these books for inspiration.

            Ginger scans through the in-box and pulls up an envelope of interest. “Here is one. A woman named Amanda Harper is concerned that her husband might be cheating on her. He’s been staying at work late and taking a lot of business trips.”

            I sigh. That’s the problem with having a woman-run detective agency. Other women are always coming to you, asking for advice like you are host Joey Greco from the cable show Cheaters. I rarely get work like robbery or missing persons.

            “Anything else?” I ask.

            “Yes. A message from Mr. Elijah Storm of Storm Enterprises. It’s rather insulting, but a request just the same.”

            “Well, what does it say?”

            “Miss Rossen, I have been informed that your detective agency is small and inefficient, and that…” Ginger pauses and I watch her face turn an angry shade of radish red.

“And that what, Ginger? Just say it.”

“and that your receptionist used to give lap dances to high school teachers, but you have the only detective agency in town so I guess you’ll have to do. I’m afraid that someone in my company may be leaking information to foreign companies, and I need to find out who the culprit is and what kind of damage they’ve caused. I don’t want anyone to know that I am investigating, so don’t call me. I’ll call you. Don’t e-mail me at work, either.

Sincerely,

Mr. Elijah Storm

President.”

            Ginger looks at me like she’s about to cry. She’s a straight A student, and I know lap dances have nothing to do with it.

            “The nerve of that asshole!” I say. “To insult me and my receptionist, and to expect me to do detective work for him? I have half a mind to e-mail everyone in his company and to tell them to watch out, because he’s about to spy on them.”

            “So what’s our first order of business, Miss Rossen?” Ginger is always trying to get the ball rolling.

            “E-mail Mrs. Harper back. Make an appointment for her to come in tomorrow for an interview, so we can start the preliminary work for her concerns. Then do some research on this Elijah Storm fellow. I want a full profile on him before he calls. Ginger, I’m talking everything. I want college news articles, names and ages of relatives, property records. I want to know how many bathrooms this pretentious fool has in his house. Everything.”

            I’m already starting to pull costumes out of the disguise closet.

            “And what are you going to do?” Ginger asks, confused.

            “Me? I’m going to pay a secret little visit to Storm Enterprises. Mr. Storm doesn’t want to see me there, and he won’t.”

            “Wait. You are going to spy on the client? What good will that do?”

            “Ginger, in order to get an accurate picture, you’ve got to observe everything. Even the things that don’t seem important.”

            What I do next is pull on my favorite short blond wig, the one I call “The Soccer Player’s Wife.” Then I change my make up and clothes. I grab my notebook and video camera and I’m nearly out the door.

“And Ginger?”

“Yes?”

“No checking Alex’s Facebook page while I’m gone.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Once I’m in the car, I punch Storm Enterprises into my GPS. During stop lights, I Google the company so that I know what sort of cover I should have when I arrive. The business is located on the West side of town, and since I have to cross the bridge, it takes me a while to get there. Plus, I’ve got to stop at the cake shop on my way.

I pull into the parking lot and park on the far side of the building. I tie on the apron I bought at the cake shop, apply some lip gloss, and stack the four white boxes of cupcakes in my arms. Storm Enterprises specializes in nanotechnology, and today they are having a launch party for one of their new designs. It’s catered. Or at least, I hope it is.

I walk straight into the front entrance, and I see a receptionist. I figured they wouldn’t let just anybody walk wherever they wanted.

“Hello, I’m with the rest of the caterers. For the launch party? Can you tell me which room to set up in?” I smile and all of the expensive orthodontic work my parents paid for shows.

The receptionist is female, dressed in a plaid shirt, and looks really annoyed, like maybe I’m interrupting her Facebook Farmville time.

“Room 207. That’s on the second floor.”

And here I thought it might be in the basement.

“Thank you,” I say, and hurry towards the elevator. But what I do when the receptionist isn’t looking is I ditch the elevator and take the stairs. I fully plan on exploring. The annoying part is I have to carry all these cupcakes around with me in case I get caught.

During my self-guided tour, I mostly take note of whose office is whose, and what sort of things are on the walls, and what people are wearing. When I get to room 215 I find what I’ve been looking for: Elijah Storm’s personal office. There’s a tiny side panel window so I casually walk by and peek to see if anyone’s inside. The light is off. What I do is try the door handle but of course it’s locked. So then I scan down the hallway to see if anybody is coming. I set down the boxes of pastries and sort of squish my face up against the glass so I can see as much of his office as I can.

As you might expect from a man named Storm, most of his office is gray. Gray leather chairs, gray marble desk, gray carpet. I hear a bit of talking, so I quickly pick up the boxes and turn in the other direction.

Two young men spot me. “Hey, are those for the party?” the one in the brown suit asks, clearly interested in butter cream frosting.

“Yes,” I reply.

“You can bring them down here. Room 207.” 

Sometimes cupcakes can actually make a really good cover.

I follow the men into a spacious conference room. I see there is a table of food already set up. I take my cupcakes to one of the corners. A tall man in a gray suit is bent over, filling his plate with capers. As I set down the cupcakes, I accidentally brush his arm. He turns and looks at me, eyes a sparkly shade of gray-blue. I try not to stare at his beauty.

He smiles and says…

But first, before the dialogue, a profile on Elijah Storm:

            Six-foot-two, blond hair. You already know about the eyes. 29 years old. Started his own business at age 19. Mother: Charisse T. Storm, age 56. Father: Jackson E. Storm, age 58. Sister: Elisa M. Knottage, age 31. Hometown: Irmo, South Carolina. Attended Syracuse University 2000-2004. Ran track. Property records indicate a 2 story house on East Marius Street. 4 bedrooms, 3 baths. No wife.

All of this was in the text message Ginger had sent me shortly before I entered the Storm Enterprises office building.

Mr. Elijah Storm smiles at me and says, “You’re a bit late, aren’t you?”

“I encountered a bit of a delay. My apologies.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it. If you had been early, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have met you. I’m Elijah.” He sticks out his hand and expects me to touch it.

“Emily,” I improvise. Then I smile awkwardly as I shake his hand. It’s warm and strong and distracting. I pull out of his grip.

            “So which one of these is best?” Mr. Storm asks as he scans the cupcakes.

            “I always fall for the almond frosting myself.”

            “Almond it is then.” He places a cupcake on his plate. “Are you sticking around for the presentation?”

            I’ve got a feeling he doesn’t ask most caterers this question.

            “I’m afraid I’ve got other deliveries to make.”

            “That’s a shame.” He winks at me. “Maybe next time.”

            Even though it’s just a wink, I can’t help but feel something’s been stolen from me. Like a piece of dignity. Also, I’m feeling rather confused. Elijah Storm sends me an e-mail with a rude introduction, but then he is quite congenial about the fact that his cupcakes arrived late? And okay, he didn’t actually order any cupcakes, and he didn’t realize that his cupcake deliverer is also his detective, but still.

            “Have a great party,” I say, and I make a dash for the exit. But I don’t exactly leave yet. I spy on Elijah Storm through one of the tiny windows for a while.

            “Did you get my text?” Ginger asks when I get back to the office, which is actually just the spare bedroom of my house.

            “Yes, thank you, Ginger.”

            “I’ve got more information. I’ve printed it all up and put it in a file.” She hands me a manila folder with E. Storm labeled on the tab.

            I browse through it quickly, with intentions of looking at it more thoroughly this evening.

            “Did you find anything interesting?”

            “Nothing conclusive, but it was worthwhile. Oh, and I brought you back a cupcake.” I drop a little box on her desk. “You’ve just got fifteen minutes left on the clock. Why don’t you go home early. Maybe Facebook chat with that boy you like so much.”

            “Thanks, Miss Rossen.”

            “And Ginger?”

            “Yes, you can call me Joelle, really. I’m not a teacher anymore.”

            “Yes ma’am…er, Joelle. See ya tomorrow.”

            What I do after Ginger leaves is I get on the computer and search Facebook myself, for one Elijah Storm.

            “Damn!” I say to myself, after my search yields nothing but an African-American man named Elijah Storm who went to Bible college, lives in California, and works for EMI Music Publishing. I log off, tilt my chair back, and begin to read through the file Ginger composed for me.

            The next day I meet Mrs. Harper in the office at one o’clock, and she tells me all of the information I ask for. I have Ginger sit in with me so she can watch and learn. Really, I want her to start taking over all the infidelity cases I get, because I find them all so boring. Just when Mrs. Harper is inviting me over to search her house for clues among her husband’s things, the phone rings.

            Ginger answers it. A moment later she says, “Um, Miss Rossen? I think maybe you ought to take this? Mr. Storm calling.”

            I try to hide my sour face from Mrs. Harper. “Excuse me, just a minute, will you? Ginger will continue with your concerns.”

            I leave the office (okay, spare bedroom), and pick up the line in the kitchen while Ginger dialogues with Mrs. Harper about her husband’s routine trips to the racquetball club.

            “Hello, this is Detective Rossen speaking,” I say in my most businesslike voice.

            “Ah, Miss Rossen. Elijah Storm here. I hope you were expecting my call.”

            “Indeed I was, sir.”

            “So what sort of preliminary steps need to be taken? Shall I come in?”

            “Actually, Mr. Storm, I assure you some preliminary steps have already been taken.” I sort of laugh to myself a bit at the joke only I understand. “Mr. Storm, I have a question for you though.”

            “What’s that?”

            Why are you such an asshole? But what I say is “Why does someone who runs a nanotechnology company need my help solving this case? Surely you have some sort of minuscule camera or tracking system you could slip into the drinking water of all your employees or something.”

            Elijah Storm feigns a laugh. “Fair enough question, detective. Of course I’ve taken preventative measures…Do you want to take the job or not?”

            “To be honest with you, your initial e-mail contained both insults and poor punctuation. I’m not entirely sure that you are a man I would like to assist.”

            “Whatever your going rate is, I’ll triple it,” Mr. Storm says. This sentence sounds a bit illicit, but I understand his meaning. Money has a way of apologizing. And I do need to pay for this year’s Christmas presents.

            “Fine then, Mr. Storm. Can you come to my office today?”

            “No, I’m busy. But you may come to Storm Enterprises today. 3:15.”

            I know, right? He’s the one who was just pushing to get into my office. “I normally charge extra for meeting clients outside of my office. And besides, I thought you didn’t want anyone in your company to know that you were in the process of investigating?”

            “Damn. You’re right. Well listen, is $100 enough to make an outside visit? And do you speak Swedish at all?”

            “Um. Yes to the money, no to the language.”

            “I’ve got a massage scheduled for later in the afternoon. Just tell the receptionist that you’re there to assist Ingrid. Dress like a masseuse.”

            I’m about to protest, but I realize the line’s gone dead. On one hand, Elijah Storm is turning more and more into an elephant sized ass, on the other hand, this is probably the most interesting case I’ll get in a long time. If I don’t go to Storm Enterprises today, I’ll have to be the one to spy on Mr. Harper at the racquetball club. If I go see Mr. Storm, then I can delegate the Cheaters episode to Ginger, and she can get some quality practice in reconnaissance.

            I go back to the office where Ginger is just finishing up the details with Mrs. Harper. I assure Mrs. Harper that we will have accurate results on her case in a matter of days, and to try to relax in the meantime. After she leaves, I say to Ginger, “I’ve got to go meet our jerk client. I need you to go to Mr. Harper’s work and follow him to the racquetball club, if indeed that is where he goes. Watch everything. Who he nods to, who he talks to, who his playing partner is. Pull on something athletic from the disguise closet. No 80s sweat bands or off-the-shoulder sweatshirts. This isn’t Flashdance.”

            “Yes, Ma’am.”

            “And Ginger? No stopping by the coffee house to visit Alex during his shift.”

            “Of course.”

            I check the clock and see that I have a bit of time before I need to leave for Storm Enterprises. So what I do is a bit of thumbing through the file on E. Storm. I get on-line and look up some local elementary schools, check a few names, and make a call.

            “Hello, this is Angela at Storm Enterprises, how may I direct your call?”

            “Hello,” I lie, “this is Mrs. Pearson from Wayside Elementary calling for Tiffany Roberts.”

            “I’m afraid that Mrs. Roberts is with our company’s president at the moment. Could I take a message?”

            “Yes. Tell her that Jackie needs to be picked up from school right away. This message is really of the utmost urgency.”

            After I hang up, I go to the disguise closet and dress in a black pencil skirt and black top. I put on a pair of stilettos and find the smartest pair of glasses I have.

           I arrive at Storm Enterprises at 3:11, walk up to the receptionist (Angela) and say, “I’m here to assist Mr. Storm. He called me in as his regular personal assistant had to leave early.”

            Angela eyes me up and down. She clearly doesn’t remember me as the blond cupcake caterer from yesterday. “What’s your name?”

            “Joelle Rossen. He’s expecting me.”

            I watch as Angela lifts the receiver and dials Mr. Storms’ office. “I have a Joelle Rossen here to see you, sir. Uh huh. Yes. Okay.”

            “His office is room 215. That’s on—”

            “Yes, the second floor, I know. Thank you.”

I actually take the elevator this time and head straight to Elijah Storms’ office. When I get there I see through the side window that the lights are dimmed. I tap on the door.

            “Come in,” yells a muffled voice.

            Once I enter, I am utterly horrified.

            Towards the back of the office is a wheelie bed, like the kind the doctors on Grey’s Anatomy use to push ER patients around on. There is a blond woman dressed in white, and she is hammering on the back of a mostly naked man. I mean, he hasn’t got his shirt on. And okay, there is a towel over his bum, but still. Mr. Storm’s face is sunken into one of those face cradle things. Ocean beach sounds are playing softly in the background, and I can smell the scent of lavender oil.

            “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

            “Miss Rossen, is that you?” Mr. Storm asks, on account of how he can’t see anything but the floor.

            “Yes. But I thought you said you were free at 3:15.”

            “My apologies. Ingrid arrived early today. But I can multi-task. Have a seat there, and we can chat while I’m getting my knots worked out.”

            “Ummm,” I say uncertainly. “Are you sure these matters should be discussed right now? With your masseuse present?”

            “Ah, don’t worry about it. Ingrid only knows Swedish. And my sister Elisa lived with her during her study abroad trip to Sweden. Ingrid’s practically another sister.”

            I’m still really hesitant about the whole thing, but I decide to stay. I mean, I am getting paid extra for this horrific experience. As a security test I say, “So, Ingrid. Do you buy all your furniture at Ikea?”

            The blond woman looks at me, shakes her head, and says, “Jag förstår inte engelska.”

            “So Mr. Storm, where shall we start?” I say to the back of his head.

            “Before we even start, maybe you could help me with one other thing. My PA seems to have gone missing. I haven’t seen her since two o’clock. And I’ve got a lot of work for her to do.”

            “Mr. Storm, your personal assistant, Tiffany, had to go pick up her daughter at school, due to a suspected lice outbreak. I told your receptionist that I’m here as your PA for the rest of the day.”

            “I thought I told you to come as an assistant to my masseuse?”

            “Yeah, well, my blond wig was dirty. And frankly, sir, I’ve thought this through more than you. In order to solve this case, I’m going to need to be here daily, so I can watch everything. I’m going to need access to everything. That’s why you’ve hired me as your second personal assistant. No one will be suspicious.”

            “What? You can’t be my PA. You won’t be any good. I need Tiffany back.”

            “It’s a guise, sir. Tiffany will be back tomorrow.” Plus, I would make an excellent personal assistant. But I don’t say that.

            “Oh. Alright then. As long as I don’t have to pay you for being both a detective and a personal assistant.”

            “I wouldn’t dream of it.” I take my notebook out and settle into the chair I’m sitting in, which is opposite my client’s massage table. “So, Mr. Storm, tell me about any suspects you have, any odd things that have happened lately.”

            I listen to him give me the scoop on the inside doings. But let’s just be honest, if this were ice cream, this scoop would make a child sized cone. The man seems oblivious to everything. As Elijah Storm continues to talk, I get distracted because Ingrid’s just poured a huge glob of oil onto his back, and she’s working it all around his muscles, which are quite toned. His body glistens, and I start to laugh to myself about what would happen if he got put into a giant frying pan right now.

            At 4:10, Ingrid, who’s actually been touching the guy the whole time, says “Gjort.” I take this to mean she’s finished. Mr. Storm lifts himself off of the table and I see his face for the first time. Second time, actually. His face has this really great U-shaped indent on it, thanks to the cradle. He’s also got some extra wrinkles formed that weren’t there yesterday. But you think that’s distracting? Try looking at his abs. I try to shield my virgin eyes, but what I notice are all the masculine muscles he’s got stored there. In fact, I think he’s trying to flex right now. Pretentious fool.

            Mr. Storm makes sure the towel or sheet or whatever is wrapped securely around his waist before standing up. Then he turns to Ingrid, shakes her hand, and says “Tack. Skicka mig en räkning som vanligt.”

            Ingrid’s wheeling her massage bed out the door, but then she turns to me and says “Kommer,” with a motioning hand.

            “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry.” I follow her out and wait in the hallway.

But first, before the masseuse leaves, a profile on Ingrid:

            Blond, as you know. Tan, of course. Very Swedish. After a messy divorce with her husband, she moved to America eight months ago at the suggestion of Elisa Storm. She is struggling financially but is very intelligent, as she was a chemical engineer in Sweden. The language barrier is preventing her from finding a good paying job. This is surprising considering 89% of Swedes know English. What’s her excuse? Ingrid comes weekly to Mr. Storm’s office, and she attends ESL classes through the YWCA.

After about seven minutes Mr. Storm opens his office door, this time fully clothed.

            “Elijah Storm. Nice to finally meet you.”

            I stick my hand out and shake his. He’s still got the horseshoe indents on his forehead.

            The next day is the day Ginger has off, so I go through the file on Mr. Harper to see what she’s found. I pop by the Harper’s house in the early morning (Mr. Harper is gone of course) to poke my nose around for some clues. Then I get to Storm Enterprises by nine o’clock, dressed as a personal assistant, wearing my disguise glasses.

            The morning is pretty much a bore as I follow both Elijah Storm and Tiffany around to meetings. But the good thing is, is that during the all-staff meeting, I get to take detailed notes on everybody in the room, even though they all think I’m taking minutes. I see this really hot guy who works in Graphics, but I try not to get distracted. You know, even though he’s the only one in the room wearing jeans and a black utility jacket, with a band tee underneath. I guess if you work in the art department you can get away with those kinds of things.

            I go to Storm Enterprises every day for the next few days, which brings us to Thursday. While I don’t have a glaring list of suspects, I do have an accurate picture of the information leak. I’ve collected data on which foreign companies have stolen nanotechnology designs from Storm Enterprises, and I have the suspected time span of the leaks. The problem is, no one in the company has so much as Googled any of the companies who stole information. No one took business trips or vacations to the area of interest, and I’ve tapped everyone’s phone calls.

            To be honest, I’m sort of suspecting Ingrid. I know she went through a bad divorce and moved continents, but she has the perfect opportunity. I mean, she comes into Elijah’s office weekly. They talk in Swedish to each other for an hour. I bet he tells her all sorts of things about the company. I went to get a massage once, and the masseuse practically wanted me to share my entire life story with her. Besides, if Elijah was so willing to discuss the investigation in front of Ingrid, how many other times has she been privy to secret meetings? I bet she hears everything. And that whole no speaking English thing is probably a ruse. I don’t have any conclusive evidence on her, but she is definitely a person of interest. 

 Later, when I’m at home cooking dinner, Ginger calls.

“Miss Rossen, I have an update for you.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m at the gym right now, tailing Mr. Harper, you know?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“And he plays with this guy named Sam Porras on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and with a man named to Tyler White on Mondays and Saturdays.”

“I know all of this, Ginger. You wrote it up and put it in Mr. Harper’s file.”

“But today is Thursday, and Mr. Harper is not playing with Sam Porras.”

I understand that Ginger is excited that she knew the normal, regular, routine, and that she noticed a change, but really? Unless Mr. Harper started playing tennis with Anna Kournikova, does it really matter?

“So who is Mr. Harper playing instead today? Is it someone you’ve seen before?”

“You’ll never believe this. He’s playing racquetball right now with Elijah Storm.”

I about choke to death on my own spit.

“What do you mean Mr. Harper’s racquetball partner is Elijah Storm?”

“What I mean is right now they are at the gym, wearing protective eyewear and Nike spandex. It’s Elijah Storm. I’m 100% sure.”

            I think to myself, what does this mean? Because what are the chances that the two people I am doing cases for are connected somehow? Unless a mutual friend recommended me to both of them? Elijah never mentioned to me Mr. Harper as his friend or acquaintance. And Mrs. Harper hadn’t said anything about Elijah Storm.

            “Video tape them,” I tell Ginger, because I’m going to want to watch their interaction later if I don’t get there in time. I mean, are they friends or what? “I’m on my way.” My plan is to get there in time so that when the two men are done playing racquetball, Ginger can follow Mr. Harper and I can follow Elijah Storm to wherever he goes next. The plan seems a bit stalker-esque, I know, because most of the time I don’t spy on my own clients. It’s just such a strange coincidence that they know each other.

            When I get to the gym, I find Ginger video taping from the second floor balcony, which sort of looks down on the racquetball courts. Mr. Storm and Mr. Harper both have no idea they’re being watched.

            “Anything interesting?” I ask when I arrive.

            “Mr. Storm is leading by seven points.”

            We watch the two men for a bit, and it’s honestly kind of an eye sore, what with all that spandex. It doesn’t really matter that Elijah is super-fit, nobody wants to see all of that. Once the men head to the locker room, Ginger and I make our exit out of the gym ahead of time and get in our cars, ready to tail them. My receptionist and I are both connected with our Blue Tooths (er, Blue Teeth?) so that we can communicate what we see each man doing.

            After we narrate to each other the twists and turns of our respective trails, Ginger informs me that Mr. Harper has arrived at his residence, and she can see him through the kitchen window, where he is greeting his wife (in a pool of sweat, no doubt). Ginger tells me she has an Anthropology final exam to study for, and can she please go home? I tell her good work, good luck, and see you tomorrow after your test. I continue to follow Mr. Storm, and after his stop at the dry cleaners, he goes home as well. I watch as he pulls his Lincoln into his three car garage and shuts the door. I wait about twelve minutes, then get out of my car, walk up to his doorbell, and push the button. I’m a tiny shred nervous, as I have never revealed to anyone that I have followed them home.

            I hear foot steps padding down the hall, the door opens, and there is Mr. Elijah Storm, hair wet and wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. And here I thought he showered in the locker room. “Detective Rossen,” he says, a bit too pleasantly. I force my way into the foyer.

            “Mr. Storm, we need to talk,” I demand. I eye his glistening water dotted chest and add “after you put on your jammies.” 

            Once he has returned wearing a white Hanes t-shirt and grey sweatpants, I start to grill him like a George Foreman.

            “Tell me the nature of your relationship with Mr. Lucas Harper.”

            Mr. Storm looks at me really surprised, more surprised than having your private detective show up on your doorstep at 8pm when you are wearing nothing but terry cloth. He’s surprised like maybe I’m expecting that he tell me he is actually gay, and that Lucas Harper is his secret lover.

            “How do you know about Luke?” he asks.

            “I know everything, Mr. Storm. Over the past few days I have learned everything about your company, and in turn, everything about you. Now, please tell me about Luke Harper.”

            “He’s a buddy of mine. We play racquetball together sometimes, have drinks at the bar occasionally…”

            “How long have you known him?”

            “About a year.”

            “Where did you meet?”

            “On an airplane. He was sitting next to me. We were both flying back from a business trip in Japan. I found out he worked in the same city as me. In computer engineering.”

            “Has Mr. Harper ever been to the office building of Storm Enterprises?”

            “Oh yeah, all the time. We talk about work a lot. Usually I invite him to our launch parties. He’s a good person to bounce ideas off of, and he has good connections.”

            I ask the next question just to make him uncomfortable, even though I know the answer.

            “Are you and Mr. Harper romantically involved?”

            “What? No, or course not. I like women…I slept with one last week.”

            He didn’t really need to mention the last part. First of all, I already knew. Her name is Claudia and she sent him a really sappy e-mail that I deleted the day I was his personal assistant. I didn’t think he needed that kind of emotional wreck in his life. I mean, if it weren’t an e-mail, I’m sure she would have dotted her “i”s with hearts. More importantly, she was only 19. I checked.

            “Joelle, why are you asking me all of these questions about Luke Harper?”

            “Because, Mr. Storm, you are a moron.”

            “Excuse me?” An angry look starts to form across all of his beautiful, undeserved features.

            “I don’t normally tell clients about work I’m doing with other clients, but I have been investigating Mr. Harper for another matter. In the past two months, he has made many business trips to both Tokyo and London. He works in computer engineering. You’ve had him to your office many times and he’s chummy with you. Think about it, Mr. Storm. He’s probably the one leaking all of your new developments.” I pull out the two files I had grabbed from the office earlier, the ones marked L. Harper and E. Storm. “All of the details you gave me coincide with the information I’ve gathered on Mr. Harper. You said that on September 18^th, a company in Tokyo came out with a new technological design exactly like yours. Only they beat your deadline so everyone thinks they are the developers. Three weeks before that, Mr. Harper took a business trip to Tokyo.” I scan through the file. “He met with that exact same Japanese business.”

            Somehow, I was able to piece all of this together during the 12 minutes I sat outside in the driveway of Mr. Storm’s house. In fact, I’m surprised I hadn’t made the connections earlier. Mr. Harper had covered his tracks well. I had no idea about the many visits he had made to Storm Enterprises, or about his close relationship with its president.

            “Are you completely sure?” Mr. Storm asks me.

            “I can do more verifying tomorrow, sir, but you can see here that all the dates line up. Same company in Tokyo, same company in London. He’s probably making a pretty penny off of the deal he has going.”

            Elijah Storm’s face starts to turn blue. “The nerve of that asshole! I trusted that bastard! I considered him a friend, and here, all that time when we were bouncing ideas off of each other, he was just stealing mine. I’m gonna sue that effing prick for all he’s worth. I’m gonna have him arrested for this!”

            For the very first time, I actually start to feel bad for Elijah Storm, despite his potty mouth. I mean, this whole time I’ve basically thought him a handsome moronic jerk, but it hurts my heart a tiny bit that he has such a double-crossing friend. And okay, Elijah shouldn’t have been such a moron in the first place, but still.

            “I’m sorry, Elijah. But sometimes friends are really just out to make a buck off of you.”

            The next morning I don’t dress up as a PA or go into the Storm Enterprises office building. Instead, what I do is write up a detailed invoice stating all of the charges this case is costing and fax it to Elijah. But on the bottom of the invoice I write in cursive “Cheer up, pal, at least you can take him to court with this evidence.”

            Then I call Mrs. Harper and ask her to come in to my office. After that I text Ginger, who is at the university taking her Anthropology final.

     How would you like to go from receptionist to assistant detective? You’ve earned it.

            She responds immediately.

            Wow! Like I can be Watson now?

            I send my reply then do a bit of housework until Mrs. Harper arrives. When she shows up at the door, I have a cup of tea and a cupcake waiting for her, even though it’s only ten-thirty a.m. We settle into my office so I can give her the news.

            “Mrs. Harper, I’m pleased to inform you that I’ve finished working on your case.”

            She looks a bit nervous, but inches forward on the edge of her chair.

            “Yes? What of Lucas? Is he two-timing me with that girl from his office?”

“No, Mrs. Harper, I’ve got good news for you. Your husband is not cheating on you. But he may be doing some jail time soon.”

Paper Facebook

Last week I had to confiscate a laptop from one of my 4th graders. It was distracting her. What was she doing in class instead of reading? Facebooking. This is what her self-made computer looked like. Notice she didn't X out fast enough before I caught her. That button must be stuck.

 What you need to do is click on the image so you can view it in full size. This piece of paper was folded in half so that the screen was standing up and the keyboard was flat on the desk. These are the things you might notice:

She's on Facebook, of course, but her other open tab is YouTube.
She's listening to You Ain't Gonna Tie Me Down.
She looks a bit disgruntled in her profile picture.
She has 8 friends.
Her status is "I'm so bored," but I stole her computer before she could click share.
The friends who showed up in her news feed were Kelley and Melissa.
Two friends are online.
She's Facebook chatting with Marsha. The conversation reads:
hi.
hi.
what are you doing.
nothing, why.
just asking.
oh

Now let's take a look at her innovative keyboard. It has the numbers across the top, of course, along with Bakespace, which is a lot like backspace, except that you bake tasty cupcakes when you push it.
She has a non-qwerty standard keyboard. Instead, the keys are in alphabetical order.
There are arrow navigation keys.

My verdict? Facebook has its grips on even our youngest youth. They're thinking about it even when they aren't near a computer.

More Friends Than Me (feat. J.J.)

Sometimes it's fun to imitate people. Sometimes it's fun to pretend. Like, what if Mike Posner was instead a girl who wanted to date Mark Zuckerburg? Or you know, anyone else. I'm sure you can relate. 

More Friends Than Me

written by Joelle Jean

If I could write you a letter,

to make you fall in love,

I would already have you here next to me.

I used up all of my similes,

penned all of my rhymes,

but you still don’t like me.

Won’t give it more time.

And it’s probably ‘cause

You think you have more friends than me.

You got multiple texts

Blowin’ up your phone.

Friends at your side,

Girls sayin’ “Take me home.”

You never respond to my comments

Or read my blog,

And it’s probably ‘cause

You think you have more friends than me.

You’ve got your Facebook group

Posts on your wall

Friend requests from girls

You don’t know at all.

Your status updates

Show you haven’t a clue

How much

everyone

really

despises

you.

See I got you

all figured out.

You need photo comments just to feel liked.

Behind your Twitter account nobody knows the real you.

Who are you really? Do you even know?

If I could write you a letter,

to make you fall in love,

I would already have you here next to me.

I used up all of my similes,

penned all of my rhymes,

but you still don’t like me.

Won’t give it more time.

And it’s probably ‘cause

You think you have more friends than me.

You got multiple texts

Blowin’ up your phone.

Friends at your side,

Girls sayin’ “Take me home.”

You never respond to my comments

Or read my blog,

And it’s probably ‘cause

You think you have more friends than me.

You got your snobby little smirk when you talk.

And you don’t even nod when you saunter by.

It all shows you haven’t a clue

How much

everyone

really

despises

you.

See I got you

all figured out.

You need photo comments just to feel liked.

Behind your Twitter account nobody knows the real you.

Who are you really? Do you even know?

Cause it sure seems.

Cause it sure seems

You haven’t a clue.

That you haven’t a clue.

But we all see

we all see

how much we really despise you.

If I could write you a letter,

to make you fall in love,

I would already have you here next to me.

I used up all of my similes,

penned all of my rhymes,

but you still don’t like me.

Won’t give it more time.

And it’s probably ‘cause

You think you have more friends than me.

You got multiple texts

Blowin’ up your phone.

Friends at your side,

Girls sayin’ “Take me home.”

You never respond to my comments

Or read my blog,

And it’s probably ‘cause

You think you have more friends than me.

He's Not Gay After All

         Let me tell you about the day I found out my friend, Chase, was not gay, just a fashionable dresser.

I met Chase freshman year in college, at a university sponsored speed dating session, actually. Then I found out he was in one of my classes. After two days, I was positive he was gay. I was super upset, because this always happens to me. I get a crush on a cute guy, but then he ends up being gay. Chase wore these really expensive, trendy jeans with leather shoes all the time, talked with a lisp, and would say, “Oh my god” with deep-seated emotion. Nevertheless, somehow over the four year span of college, we became friends.

Channing Tatum

It was a Saturday evening when Chase was at my apartment. We were planning to make dinner and then go see a movie at the nearby cinema. As we talked about celebrities we thought were really hot, I mentioned Channing Tatum.

            “I mean, don’t you just want to snuggle up in his manly arms and have him hold you and never let go?” I said, while chopping celery.

            Chase eyed me, a look of scorn on his face.

            “Um, no.”
            “No?” I said. “How can you say no? Channing Tatum is so hot. I thought manly and buff was your type.”

            And okay, maybe before I said this I should have asked Chase straight out if he was gay, because he never actually has admitted it to me, I had just assumed. I was 99 percent positive.

            “Dude. Joie, it’s not like I’m gay.”

            I stopped chopping the celery and looked at Chase square in the eyes.

“What do you mean you’re not gay?” I said in an accusing tone, like how a wife might accost her husband of cheating.

“Wait, did you really think I liked guys?” he asked.

Oh shit.

“But…but…” I thought of his entire wardrobe, which consisted of shirts from Abercrombie and jeans from Express. Those Italian leather shoes. His shopping addiction. “But you have a lisp.”

Because you know, all people who have lisps bat for the other team.

“I was in speech therapy when I was a kid. It’s the S’s and R’s that give me trouble.”

            I really started to panic. Chase is one of my best friends. How could I have thought all this time that he was gay when he really wasn’t?

            “But you’ve never been in a relationship.”

            This is totally true. All the time that I have known Chase, he’s never had a girlfriend. He’d been on two dates and when those happened, I was sure it was a ploy to throw his close friends’ suspicions of his sexual orientation. But seriously. He’d never been in a relationship.

“Either have you,” Chase said flatly.

Oh, god. He’s right. I’ve never dated anybody, and probably never will, because they all think I like women or something.

 “But my Facebook profile clearly states that I am interested in Men, while yours is left blank, which makes people wonder.”

“Joie, all of that top part of my Facebook profile is blank. It’s stupid stuff. People who know me already know the answers to that info.”

Or they don’t. Clearly!

            “Chase, you can be 100 percent honest with me. I won’t judge. Are you gay? Tell me the truth.”

            Chase pulled my hands into his and looked at me, straight in the eyes.

            “Joie. I would not lie to you. I am being completely honest. I like women. I am not gay.”

            It was just hard for me to accept. If this really was true, it was going to change our friendship completely. Like, I would have to stop answering my apartment door in just a towel.

            “But what about Shia LeBeouf?” I asked. Because Chase had fully dragged me to see Transformers 2 in theaters. “You’re telling me that all those times we watched Transformers—in theater and on DVD—you’re telling me that you didn’t have a crush on Shia LeBeouf?”

            “Are you kidding me? It’s Megan Fox I was watching.”

            Oh. My. God.

“Seriously, Chase? Seriously! Megan Fox is such a whore,” I started to scream. “She’s so artificial. You like Megan Fox? For reals?”

            This proved it. He really couldn’t be gay. Not if he thought Megan Fox wasn’t a whore.

            “I think you need to calm down, Joie. I mean, is it really that upsetting? Is that why you’re friends with me? Because you thought I was gay?”

            “NO, Chase, no,” I say in exasperation. But I mean, I wouldn’t have told you all those things about the guys that I like if I had known you were straight. And when we went to the bars, I wouldn’t have pointed out to you all those guys that I thought were hot. Because I wasn’t interested in them. They were for you. And I wouldn’t have told all of my friends that you were gay. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have gone swimming in the river last summer in my underwear if I knew you were straight!”

            I was going to throw up, I really was.

            “It’s fine now, okay? Now you know,” he told me.

            And alright, maybe he should have been the one who was pissed off, instead of me. I had assumed something about him that was kind of a big deal. He was taking this really well. I shouldn’t be upset.

            “Can we just finish making dinner?” Chase asked in a soothing voice. I could actually hear a hint of chuckle behind it.

            I took a deep breath.

            “Yeah, okay. I just need to do one thing first.” I took out my phone and texted Just found out Chase is NOT gay. Then I sent it to all my friends.

            

*Just so we’re clear, this is a fictional story.

Exile Lifestyle

I often discover new websites and blogs that I really like, and it has become a problem because now my favorites side bar has 72 sites. And I look at them all frequently, of course.

Let me tell you about the new site that has interested me. The name of it is Exile Lifestyle and it's about the young word traveler, Colin Wright. He moves around a lot and barely owns anything, trying to live as a minimalist. The thing that I loved the most about Colin's website was his navigator bar. On it he has: Home, About, Archive, Goodies, Press, Contact, and Stalkers. I really like that he is reaching out to the stalker population, which has increased substantially since 2006. I would add a stalker button to my top navigator bar, but I don't think I have many.

But Colin also sort of looks like he might be an asshole, because usually young, attractive, successful males are. And he's really hot. So he's probably a really big ass hole. We're talking elephant-sized. One might think that people who travel a lot are very kind and humble because they've seen third world countries and hungry children and have had to crap in a hole dug out in the jungle or something, but I sort of think it's the opposite. I've found that a lot of people who travel frequently are ass holes, while the boy who never left his home town is very sweet. The world traveler just becomes smug about how he has seen so many life-changing things. Don't get me wrong, I would love to travel almost everywhere in the world, I'm just saying you're not improving your character by doing so. But maybe this isn't true. Maybe Colin is a very humble, gracious, kind, generous person.

So even though I am not sure about Colin, I urge you to check out his site, because it is interesting. Here is the post that shows everything he owns. And this part is for his stalkers.