I would feel more self-satisfied about the fact LinkedIn just showed me my ex’s profile as someone I should know and that the picture is from a couple years before we dated, but then I’d have to admit I was on LinkedIn.

But: We dated in 2003, so he’s rocking on LinkedIn a 15-year-old profile pic from his post-divorce online dating profile. So I win.

cammiecat:



“If you will try raising your upper lip, you might, at least, create the illusion of a smile.”


 - Paris When It Sizzles (1964)

Relevant.

cammiecat:

“If you will try raising your upper lip, you might, at least, create the illusion of a smile.”

- Paris When It Sizzles (1964)

Relevant.

(Reblogged from someauthorgirl)

Things I Might Be Doing This Week, My Last Week At This Gig

  • Tumblr’ing.
  • Passive-aggressively using Tweets about equal pay to demonstrate how to properly use Hootsuite.
  • Wearing the dress I know my boss hates and told someone else to tell me was too low cut for the office.
  • Coming in at 10 am.
  • Leaving at before 6 to make the two-for-one happy hour that ends at 7.
  • Looking up people from college on Facebook.

A Guide To Using Facebook To See Pages You “Like”

There have been a lot of complaints lately about Facebook’s algorithm driving down organic views of Page’s posts. (A terminology check: You, an individual, have a Facebook Profile. A publication, business or brand has a Facebook Page.) Some writers have hinted, and Facebook’s more-or-less said outright, that many people have hit the Like button on many a Page (some of which they don’t actually care about) and are also connected to a lot of Profiles that post a lot of things, much which you would almost certainly never see anyway if, like Twitter, Facebook’s News Feed was just a basic chronology of posts.

Whatever you think about the various arguments, the fact of the matter is that Facebook is unlikely to change course radically and re-fill your news feed with every single thing — assuming that is what you want, which is a question that doesn’t often get asked. But, assuming you do, what follows is a way to get all the posts from all the crap you Like’d in one place.

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Throwback Thursday

I’m not big on selfies or hashtags or whatever, so I don’t normally do a #tbt on Instagram (which I use almost exclusively for looking at pictures of other people’s cats because sometimes you just want a spot on the Internet to relax with a wine and enjoy your experience), but I was struck with the urge this morning when I noticed a pile of pictures my mom found in a closet and gave me. Some were mine, some were hers — just a mish mosh of photos from baby photos to doubles of stuff I probably have in an album somewhere.

In the middle was a bunch of pictures Erin and I took at our 10th high school reunion — long before most of the class was on Facebook, so I brought a film camera after she called my folks and asked me to bring it because she forgot hers (and I think I paid extra to have the pictures put on a CD to upload to a Geocities site I built, fuck you I’m old).

She had apparently taken two of my ex D., the one who died not two years later. They’re probably the only pictures I have of him that aren’t in a yearbook, because after I found after I went off to college that he’d been screwing around with another, younger classmate of ours while we were dating, Ted and I ritualistically burned the class photo he’d given me as a memento.

[This is the part where I went and Facebook friended Ted, who I haven’t seen since 1996. He accepted. Ted was awesome.]

The other two people in the photo with him are a little overexposed, so in the center, he’s hogging all the richness of the shadows, half-smiling — he didn’t really ever smile-smile for photos — and looking exactly as I remember him always looking. (It’s an illusion, of course, which he encouraged that night by wearing a touque to cover up the bald spot he’d told me in college he’d already started growing.)

It’s so weird to think that he’s gone, and that it’s been 6 years.

Sentiment analysis has also been used in political efforts. Earlier this year, the nonpartisan, nonprofit group No Labels—which seeks to strip partisanship from politics—teamed up with Los Angeles real-time analytics and trend-intelligence company Bottlenose. The goal was to find places to inject meaningful messages in measured, bipartisan Twitter conversations—which in part means hunting for tweets that eschew anger, sarcasm and other emotions that indicate a hard-line view of politics.

During the State of the Union address, Bottlenose analyzed the keywords being used in tweets hashtagged #SOTU, among other things. Adam Blumenfeld, Bottlenose’s director of client digital strategies, says he and a team from No Labels found a subset of tweeters expressing support for bipartisanship were also using the hashtag #TeamUSA.

Into those conversations, they tweeted, “Both Democrats and Republicans are a part of #TeamUSA. We need a national strategic agenda. That’s #HowWeFixIt.” And they included an image with No Labels’ Web address. In about 120 seconds, that tweet was retweeted 32 times.

- “32 Whole Retweets, A Memoir Of Failing Up” is going to be the title of my next poorly-disguised non-fiction fictional novel of our times.

[Source]

HEY LADIES! Don’t bite your tongue when your new paramour starts clumsily hurting your feelings about your physical features. Make it crystal fucking clear that you are unique and beautiful in your own way and if a dude can’t see that with his lazy pig eyes then he should get his rocks off with 2-D images and leave you the fuck alone. (You can get this point across without sounding like a vengeful evil queen in training, of course. Theoretically. Not that I’ve tried.)

From Ask Polly. I disagree with one thing — you should say it as rudely and dismissively and insultingly as possible, so that he learns to spew diarrhea out of his asshole and not his mouth.

(To all the ladies unfortunately enough to date A.P. after 1996, the reason he didn’t say a fucking word about “how your breasts don’t look like the ones in the magazines” is because I put mine away and told him that’s because mine were real and if he ever wanted to touch ones not inked on paper he should never fucking speak those words aloud ever again.)

Cold

His thoughts when putting a pizza box in the fridge: “Hm, I will have to put it under those things there.”

My thoughts when getting the pizza out of the fridge: “When the fuck was the last time we bought lettuce? OH GOD JESUS NO [throws away lettuce from January.] Are those… Oh God, were those once tomatoes, what the fuck!? [throws away bad of moldy reddish spongey nastiness] Man, I am really not hungry anymore.”

Memory is tyranny

I wonder if he would be embarrassed that the one time I can’t help but remember him is when I hear Hootie and the Blowfish?

He probably wouldn’t as long as I didn’t tell anyone. That was always sort of the deal — he wasn’t embarrassed of us, as long as I didn’t really tell anyone. Until he told Sheri, of course, at our high school reunion, that I’d both taken his virginity and not been a virgin myself when I’d done so, knowing full well she’d walk from cluster to cluster of people to dime me out, but not knowing me enough that I was so far from the point of caring that people knew I had sex.

But he won’t know of this little betrayal, writing about him, remembering him singing along to “Let Her Cry” in his bedroom, watching his mouth intently thinking about how it felt on me, lying on his white comforter in the greying light of a late winter afternoon, all because Amazon suggested I get the 69 (harhar) cent MP3, because this month, it’s been 6 years since he died.

It’s funny to think of him gone, funny to think he’ll never call my parents house again to get my number (though it hasn’t changed in 15 years), never slyly proposition me or tell a tall tale to impress me, never realize that he never had to in the first place, never find ourselves old and grey and honest and in the same place at the same time. It’s funny to think that I will never be able to hear that song without seeing his face in my mind, wondering which version of him was him, and knowing that I’ll never know.

I got a B+ once in 1996 and I am still mad

Before beginning a group project, be it in academia or any work environment, it is important to understand what type of project member you are.

The first group is the Competents: those people who can and do complete the tasks required in the specified period of time. They don’t necessarily do more than their share, but they don’t fuck it up, either.

Which makes them a notch about the Incompetents: those who can’t deliver, whether at all, on time or without massive hand-holding. Sometimes they are nice about it and sometimes they are dickishly incompetent, but the fact of the matter is that these people can’t deliver and effectively need to be worked around.

The worst types are the Slackers: they could do the work but they either successfully identify who will do it for them (see below) or who they can get to do it for them, and how to at least get credit for being a Competent. These people are unmitigated leeching assholes who would rather spend time and energy figuring out how to get out of doing work than doing it.

The final type is the Over-Invested Perfectionist, which rather predictably is my type. We cannot let the project fail on an emotional level, and put in all kinds of extra work while grimacing inside and/or out and trying to make up for the failures and shortcomings of the Incompetents and Slackers. We are the reason too many fuck-ups get B+s and A-s and promotions (even as we end up sacrificing our A’s or professional recognition for a perfect job).

That said, as an Over-Invested Perfectionist, I have rarely had the opportunity to call a Slacker on their bullshit. I have, however, eventually always found a way to sell a Slacker out to a boss person. As an Over-Invested Perfectionist, I kind of consider it my job.