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Politics, Schm-olitics.

Do you remember a period of time, where you would be in line at the grocery store/sitting at a bar/some other social situation, and you would hear someone else’s conversation and really, really, really want to butt in with your two cents?

Basically, it was life before twitter. You couldn’t just just hit the ‘reply’ button and interject yourself into someone else’s conversation. Well, you could, but that didn’t mean you were welcome to or that whoever you were about to spew your opinion on was going to appreciate it.

Granted, the same goes for twitter, but you’re on twitter. You have to understand on there that someone might not appreciate what you’re going to say, or might argue with you, or might unfollow you, or all sorts of fun consequences for whatever your 140 character opinion is.

Credit to Click photo for link.

I’m in line at the grocery store with two packages of toaster strudels, a can of red bull because i’m weak, and the Bastille CD because it was on sale and I seriously heard it was good and yes, I still buy CDs.

So, the person in front of me is buying her groceries with her kid and talking to the cashier about life. I’m half listening because I’m within earshot. The conversation is vaguely political – the Mom is asking the cashier if he plans to watch the State of the Union.

Their conversation, paraphrased, because when it got interesting I started taking notes on my phone.

Mom: The State of the Union will be on this week. Are you going to watch it?

Cashier: No, ma’am. Probably not.

Mom: Why not? Aren’t you concerned about the country?

Cashier: Yeah, I mean, I guess.

Mom: Then you really should be watching. Are you over 18?

Cashier: Yes, ma’am.

Mom: Did you vote in the last election?

Cashier: No, ma’am.

Mom: Why not?

Cashier: …I didn’t really care.

Mom: You should do research. You should be educated.

Cashier: Yes, ma’am.

I don’t like getting into political conversations, because let’s be honest, people are not always going to get along. And when it comes to politics, there’s a good chance that it gets heated and may not end well.

Photo from Keep Calm Studio. Click for link.

I once made a comment on Facebook about something political, to which the person responded:

Obviously, you’re a Democrat and I’ll be defriending you now.

And I was defriended.

Back to the situation at hand.

This woman is lecturing the cashier and I’m half debating if I’m on an episode of What Would You Do and if I should fucking say something. No one wants to be the person that John Quinones comes up to and asks WHY they didn’t do something, after all.

John Quiñones, in all his glory. Photo from Click for link.

Mom: Do you know who was running in the last election?

Cashier: Obama?

Mom: And?

Cashier: …

Mom: Do you know what political party Obama is?

Cashier: …Um…

She’s berating this guy. Like, he only wants to ask her if she wants paper or plastic and she’s probably all set to give him a pop quiz on the America government. I’m seriously going through potential things I can say in this conversation, and if I have the guts to say them.

Mom: Do you know what political party you are?

Cashier: …I…

But then.

Mom’s kid: I don’t think I’d want to go to any political party because it doesn’t look like any of them have any fun.

My abbreviated notes from eavesdropping. I really need to work on my shorthand.

My abbreviated notes from eavesdropping. I really need to work on my shorthand.

I have a new found hope in the youth of our country.


That angry little ghost with the camera, and other social medias.

My friends tried for weeks to get me to get a snapchat. The latest craze, and whatnot. But I was bound and determined to never ever ever use facebook twitter instagram keek gifboom snapchat.

Let’s be honest. It was really just invented to probably make sexting easier for people. 

I actually used this phrase with the 9 year old that lives across the street from me and was trying to convince me to download the thing.

“When I was your age, I didn’t have a cellphone, let alone have snapchat.”

Guys, I’m old.

I mean, maybe not in like the big picture-the universe is ancient scheme of things. But like, in my regular I’m on social media too much for my own good life, I’m fucking old.

The progression of my life from then to snapchat.

Age 17: First Digital Camera. I am mad because if I had gotten the camera sooner, I would have been able to bring a smaller purse to prom.

Age 18: AIM adds direct connection and we are able to send our pictures via instant message. My computer instantly slows down with the addition of so many JPEGs.

Age 20. First camera phone. I embarrass the guy who sends me the very first dick pic in my life when I pull the phone out in a group of friends asking what the hell it was. You really couldn’t tell what it was. IT WAS A VERY BAD QUALITY PICTURE, AND I BLAME LG.

Age 21: First camera phone with flash. I am temporarily blinded by the next dick pic because let’s be honest, those things are fucking awkward, and those early camera phone flashes were fucking bright.

Age 26: Snapchat comes into my life.

A few weeks ago when I was out with AsianDave and Alto. We were chilling at Yesterdog when this hot mess of a woman(in a dress twelve sizes too small with a BAC that was above the legal limit to walk in five inch heels) fell all over herself, and the two of them went crazy snapchatting her sorry ass.

They were not subtle at all.

They were not subtle at all.

“You need a snapchat.” Alto tells me. “We can send pictures all the time to each other. It’s like texting, but better.”

“But let’s be honest.” I respond. “Snapchat was created by people who wanted to be able to sext and not get caught. AND NOW SMALL CHILDREN ARE USING IT.”

“That’s true,” Alto agrees. “I’m actually pretty afraid every time I get a snapchat, that it’s going to be a dick pic.”


Cue to the next day.


Yeah. I gave in.

“Here’s my stance on snapchat.” I declare, while simultaneously sending the above snapchat, another one of the menu of the restaurant we were at, and yet another one of my hard cider. “The instant I get a snapchat of a penis, I’m deleting the app. I know why they made snapchat. I refuse to have random manparts on my phone.”

“Actually,” TomSelleck tells me. “I’ve gotten all sorts of balls snapchats, from when my friends are bored.”



“…maybe it’s a guy thing.” I shrug.


I’m snapchatting with Mystique.

Tanner Jones is my right boob, by the way.

Mystique’s boobs have names too.

the age old question

Rhetorical question, clearly.

Rhetorical question, clearly.

Back to that conversation with TomSelleck.

“Now that I think about it.” I say. “I actually get boob pictures on snapchat all the time.”

TomSelleck frowns. “I’ve never gotten a boob picture.


Dear Snapchat,

Thanks for not letting any dick pics get through to my phone*, and for showing me that men and women, we aren’t so different after all.

Love, me

*I’ll for serious delete snapchat if I get any. Don’t send me any. WEIRDOS.

Playoffs, Lucky T-shirts, and I’ve got a plane to catch.

So, it’s off to a sunny vacation after today. Which means you might be blogless without me for a few weeks — however, don’t worry, I leave you in very capable hands:

That’s right. It’s playoff time.

It’s depressing that as I leave, round two is starting and I’ll basically be missing it, but I get notifications from every app on earth, really, not counting my hockey friends that text me in capitals letters when things happen, and oh, yes.

I have twitter.

This got me into a conversation over sushi on exactly what kind of fan I am, since let’s face it, now that the playoffs are in full swing, so are the bandwagon fans.

Photo credit:

So, what exactly separates the bandwaggoners from the true fans?

Random Hockey Fan at a game I went to: We’ll get them in the fourth period.

ANYWAY. In no particular order, here are things that probably mean you’re [not] a bandwaggoner.

1. Eye rolls at the band waggoners. (See above comment from Random Fan). I asked twitter exactly what they thought of these fine sports folk, and that seemed to be the general consensus. You grin, and you bear it, or you post it on your twitter afterwards because this chick is legitimately concerned that everyone is upset now that the third period is over.

2. Superstition

I have a t-shirt. It got signed by Patrick Eaves (twice, in the same spot, because my Mom washed it and he signed it again for me, announcing, “shoot guys, we have a washer!”) and I’m afraid to ever wash it again. But every game I’ve worn it to — the Wings have won.


I was gifted an epic pair of Red Wing scrubs. I used to wear them, clean laundry providing, on game days. But everyday that I wore them, the Wings would win. So, that last day of the regular season, when the Wings were playing for their play off life? It was jean day in the office. I wore Red Wing Scrubs.

3. You tweet about your sport. You tweet obsessively about your sport. You write about your sport. Your social media friends are fans of the same team, because twitter likes to connect everybody like that.

4. Your closet may or may not look like this:

5. The following type of conversation:

Dodger: Ah, the Equinox with the Red Wing Sticker.

L.A.: Says the KIA with the Dodgers license plate.

On that note.

Enjoy the playoffs, tweet me to keep me informed, and I’ll see everyone today, tomorrow, because it’s already tomorrow where I’m going.

And this is why you shouldn’t use facebook anymore.

I was on facebook today, which I really only use for stalking purposes and photo storage, but mostly the stalking, because I don’t take photos like I used to.Image

I’m scrolling down the page, when I notice my sidebar.

FIRST. Christian Singles.

Geez, facebook. I think to myself. I’m technically Catholic, but since my religious views say “Lord Stanley,” I suppose you just made an educated guess.

SECOND. Lingerie of some sort.

Wtf, facebook. I glare at the computer screen. You just gave me an ad for sad, lonely people, and now you’re telling me to go get some lingerie? Who am I going to wear the lingerie for? Is it to boost my self esteem, because you probably know how self conscious I am.

THIRD. Photography classes.

Now this is just getting creepy. I’m backing away from the computer. Clearly, facebook is trying to get me to use the said lingerie become a porn star or something.

…Exactly what are you trying to tell me, facebook?




Go check your ads now. You know you’re curious.

SexCapades, by any other name.

So, after I wrote the post the other day involving the board games and the monopoly and the part where I question everything about modern courtship, I had some conversations with some of our readers (all seventeen of you*) about the content of the blog. On the one hand, I was all ERMAHGERD, real life people reading the blog and talking to me about it. On the other, the question asked gave me some pause.

Fan Mail


I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my blog persona of L.A…

Note the picture.

Note the picture.

And my “I don’t actually go by L.A. in real life” persona…

Same picture even!

Same picture even!

…have combined to really just be one mismatch of me on social medias. Really, I don’t have time to be hiding behind my blog name anymore. Which means, I’m sorry, but some of the content on here has disappeared to the nether reigons of the interwebs.

Maybe you did used to read about my various trysts or the time that a sheriff saw my butt in Otsego county, and maybe someday, I will continue to share those stories with you, because yes, they happened and yes, a lot of them are really freaking hilarious now that they’re in the past.

But mostly…

My mother reads my blog.

Fellow bloggers — do you have any “not postable” topics on your blog? Does your mother know what you’re writing about?!

*All 50 of you readers that like us on Facebook! (And if you don’t, WHY NOT?!)

Hey, thanks, y'all.

Hey, thanks, y’all.

Famous By Association

Once upon a time, I was chilling out on Facebook, when I saw someone in the Friends You May Know column.

Justin Abdelkader

No freaking way is that him, I think to myself. If he were on facebook, he wouldn’t show up as someone I might know, because while I would like to know a Red Wing or seven, I don’t. Plus, if I were him, I’d never go on Facebook with my real name. I’d call myself Not Justin Abdelkader to throw people off my scent of hockey man and beard and skills.

But I couldn’t stop wondering, and eventually, I just clicked “add friend,” and sent a rambling [slightly intoxicated] message apologizing for my stalker-esque self.

A little while later, I was with Poof and I told her of my escapades.

“You’re a freak,” she told me.

I nodded. She was right. I was embarrassed.

“But I added Brendan Wong on Facebook after we saw him play last week,” she says. “After all, how many Asian hockey players are out there?”

“You found him on facebook?” I asked.

She nods. “He said no.”

I shrug. “That’s okay. Abdelkader did not add me as a friend.”

You got Abdelkader’d*,” she says.

“You got Wong’d,” I respond.

Fast Forward.

It’s present day, and I’m still mildly embarrassed of my Facebook stalking. But then I realized, twitter is constantly Abdelkader-ing all of us.

How many people do you follow on twitter? How many of them are famous? And how many of those famous people have you sent tweets at, or responses at, one of millions these people, knowing there is a slim to nil chance of that tweet being read, let alone replied to?

I admit it. I have.

Hell, @mylifeyourhands even did this twitter crush study which involved some sort of comparison of crushes on normal people versus celebrities. I followed his study fervently, but did not participate, due to my unwillingness to learn how many hockey players I’m in love with.

Chart courtesy of @mylifeyourhands

But then, I met Brian Jarvis. 

Now, when I say met, I mean, he followed me, I declared him to be a pornbot, he messaged me offering me free musical talents and proof he was real, I followed him back. It was the beginning of a fabulous tweetship.

I listened to some of his music, ended up really liking it, and eventually bought the CD off of iTunes. He rocks out on a playlist with Matt Nathanson (who has yet to tweet me back even though I’ve offered to sing with him repeatedly). He counts as famous in my book. Which made it so much cooler, when the other day…

I responded to a random tweet of his, expecting no answer. Really, I was just tweeting for the hell of it…okay, and just constantly mentioning the blog. A girl has to network after all. So, imagine my surprise, when a little while later…


I was so pleased by the reply and the virtual wave that you can imagine my glee when…


Granted, Brian Jarvis did not know about the new blog address. But still. You have to give him props for finding the URL to the threewaystop, and even better, tweeting it. Clearly, this man loves his fans. So, thank you, Brian Jarvis or possibly random person that handles Brian Jarvis’ twitter account. Thank you for giving me a reason to continue following famous people on twitter, and for not Abdelkader-ing* me via the twitter. I fully expect your next album to come with a song entitled, “That Chick on Twitter that has a blog.”

*The writer also wonders exactly how famous one has to become in order to have their name turned into a verb. I.e.:

Abdelkader-ing: the act of not friending/defriending/unfriending by a more famous person.

Last Name [comma] First Name

I work in a doctor’s office. I’ve been working in the medical field for a few years now, and one thing I’ve quickly learned and never forgotten is this:

[Last Name, First Name]

If you work anywhere with a large database, you know this. First question you ask of someone is, “what is your last name?” It’s a whole lot easier than trying to match the first name — which there could be millions of. Hi, your name is Tom? WHICH TOM ARE YOU?

Which brings me to my next story.

Rewind, with me, if you will.

It’s the summer of 2009. It’s the summer of drank. Macy and I are out at our favorite bar, McDoucheBarn. She is out on the dance floor with another friend, and I’ve edged my way up to the bar. It pays to be skinny in cases like this.

I’m waiting for the bartender to take my order when this happens.

“Hey.” It’s the guy next to me. I figure he’s just going to get on my case for shoving my way next to the bar, since most likely, the bartender will take my order first. Thus, I ignore him.

“You know,” he continues. “You’re too pretty to frown.”

Oh, I realize. He’s hitting on me. This makes it much more understandable that I didn’t realize a date was a date, right?

“Hi,” I tell him. And small talk commences.

“I’m David.”


More small talk. He’s nice. He asks for my number and I tell him he can put his in my phone. He does.

“What’s your last name?” I ask.

“Why, will you be adding me on facebook later?” He asks.

“No,” I tell him even though I am planning on facebook stalking later. “I just don’t like having people in my phone without a last name.” I scroll through my contacts to prove it.

“Wow,” He says. “Last name is Allen.”

I enter it into my phone. His name is rubbing me the wrong way already.

My drinks arrive. I wave good bye to [last name, first name/first name, last name] and head towards Macy. I have barely gone three feet when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It’s him.

“By the way, if you do look me up on facebook, my name is David Maxwell* on there. [First name, middle name]. For professional reasons.”

Professional reasons. Granted, I understand that sometimes you want to keep your “personal” life (and by personal, I mean facebook and those photos of you being a less than stellar citizen) and your professional life separate. I get that.

But when your middle name can sub as your last name, and your last name can sub as your first name, and your first name can sub as either your last name OR your middle name…it’s so much to take in.

Hi, my name is first name, first name, first name.

I know that you can’t really help what your name is. My actually first name and last name are kind of a tongue twister in that sense. Thanks, parental units. But then do you really have to make it more difficult by being one name here, and a different name on facebook, and everything is so interchangable??

This is one of those weird pet peeves that I know I shouldn’t have (see comment about being unable to help what your name is) but bothers me anyway.

Case in point:

I am very good at remembering who all my patients are. I don’t need to ask for names 95% of the time, because I’ve already greeted them by name and talked about what’s new and gotten their file.

But there was one patient at an office I used to work at. He was an interchangable name man.

“Oh hey…” I’d say and trail off, realizing that I can’t remember which was his first name and which was his last name. If I say ‘hey [name],’ I could be saying the last name and it’d get weird. If I say ‘Mr. [name],’ I could be saying the first name and it’d get weird. “…you. Hey…you.”

I’m so glad my last name is actually a last name.

*David Maxwell Allen is not actually this man’s name. Or it might be, and maybe I just intermixed the names**.

**Now you’ll never know.

This small world keeps on getting smaller.

Update at the bottom!

I made a goal right before I started typing this post. I’m going to use a term 9 times in the course of this blog. Why 9? I’ll never tell. Actually, I will, at the end of this blog. Hopefully you manage to figure it out before you get there.

Last night, my phone buzzed. I half-woke and checked it, out of habit. You never know what’s going on late at night, after all. But when I looked, I saw it was a facebook message, assumed it was something random that I wouldn’t care about, and then proceeded to fall back asleep.


I’ve just dropped Boo off to school, and watched BabyDaddy read Strega Nona aloud to the class of three year olds. I’m settling down to eat some Toaster Strudel when I check facebook and see the message icon at the top. I’d forgotten all about it. But at this point, I’m awake, and I figure I might as well check it out.

This only counts as 1.

Hm. I think to myself. I do not think I have a friend named Francis Pare on facebook. However, I think there is a hockey player by that name. I believe I met him once upon a six degrees.

I read the message. It’s a reply to a picture from way, way, way back when in September, that I had sent him on facebook. He showed up on my facebook (People you may or may not know) because I’m friends with two someones who had previously worked down at the arena. I creeped his profile, added him as a friend on a whim (assuming I’d be wong’d, another story for another time), then sent him the picture for the hell of it. Poof and I both looked cute that night after all.

Hey! Everybody! Come and see how good we look!

So, I shot a reply to Francis Pare, which is actually the snippet of the message you can see there. And I wondered to myself…why on earth would he respond now?

…Then I went onto the blog…

I was all set to write an angry post about some goings on here in the life of L.A. Halfway through the blog, I realized it was too much for me to post, too much for me to share, or deal with, at least for right now. I might post it later on in life, but for now…moving on. Instead, I looked for a generic post I could write to keep our readers reading and the loving for us at a high.

Hockey post? Just did that.

Facebook rant? Been there, done that.

Amusing anecdote about winning? I have a big head.

Search term fun? …that could work…

This counts as 1 too.

I’m looking over the search terms for ridiculousness when I see it. Francis Pare. There he is again. How random. I head to Google. Seriously. The guy is a hockey player for the feeder team of [in my opinion] the best franchise in the NHL (Hi, Red Wings), and Google is sending searches to the triple threat blog? I mean, I think we’re fabulous, but this is a little weird.

This counts as 2 more.

Well, what do you know? If you Google Image search for Francis Pare, the blog comes up! We are in the top twenty images of Francis Pare. Which leads to conclude…

He’s googling himself. From that, he saw the picture, and found the blog. Remembered me from the picture and the consequential facebook stalking. And sent the message.

Mystery Solved. I win, Mr. Pare. Or else this is just jumping to conclusions and I just managed to distract myself for an hour with the interwebs.

In which case, really, I still win.

Update! In the period of time it took me to write and post this blog, someone else searched for this hockey player and found the blog. REALLY. That was quick, mystery searcher.