Charming, but single

(Note: This is the last update on this subject. I just didn’t want to have 12 different posts about this. The update is at the bottom.)

Just in case it was not clear before, the writing on this blog belongs to me. I know I do not have my picture and my name out there, but trust me, there is a person behind these words and she is very much real and she very much feels these things and she very much lives through all of the events contained in this blog.

For better or for worse, this blog is mine. Warts and all. Good posts and bad. Brilliant writing and crappy lists.

So to say that I would appreciate it if people would avoid taking my work and posting it on their blog (or in other publications) as their own is the understatement of the century.

I will go so far as to say that you SHOULD NOT FOR ANY REASON take writing from this blog (”Charming, but Single”) and pass it off as your own.

(Really, you shouldn’t do that to any blogger or writer, but that’s neither here nor there now is it?)

I just wanted to make sure that my stance on this issue was CRYSTAL CLEAR.

For now, that is the only statement I would like to make on this matter.

Update 2/1/06: I appreciate the support from my regular readers about this. I posted this short post last night when I was upset and angry and slightly fearful that someone else would take (or already was taking) credit for my work. I will be adding a disclaimer on the site somewhere and I am reading up on Creative Commons liscenses. Not that a disclaimer would stop anyone …

The ease of blogging is a double-edged sword. I love that I can have a thought and almost immediately publish it. The down side is that anyone can easily copy and paste my work and pass it off as theirs. This is compounded by the fact that it is easy to feel detached from those bloggers who are anonymous. And, there’s no “governing” body on the Web like there is in other mediums. If a columnist from a national magazine cribs from another writer, there are lawyers and editors and publishers involved. The blogosphere doesn’t have this. (Which is also both good and bad.) Also, blogs so often quote each other that lines get crossed. I do not believe that is what happened in this situation because of the way my work was integrated into the other blog. As a rule of thumb, I’d say people should give credit (including links WITH the quoted text) to the blogs they are quoting so that the author can follow his or her work through Technorati, trackbacks or sitemeters. When in doubt, ask before you quote!

People have asked how I found out. I received two anonymous comments last night on two of the posts that were plagiarized heavily (word for word, including the titles!) on the front page of someone’s personal blog. I hoped this was a misunderstanding or that something was just improperly linked or sourced. This, unfortunately, was not the case. Upon further reading of the blog, I found much of my work intersperced with what I assume are the author’s own works. Whole posts of mine were reposted with minor edits in some cases and in others a few paragraphs would be inserted in a piece. It was weird. (Ironically, one of the posts was about how I saw both the good and bad in myself and wanted to be with someone who loved me because of and in spite of it all. So, I wrote a post specific to my flaws and fabulousness and someone else stole it to describe themself. CLASSIC.)

I sent the blogger an e-mail that basically said, “I read your blog. I do not appreciate you passing my work off as your own. I do not think you are a bad person, but if you do not take my content off of your blog by tomorrow evening, I will make a big deal out of this and I will make your URL known.” (As politely as I could, given the circumstances.) The offending content was removed almost as soon as I posted my little diatribe about not stealing my work. (I saved a copy of the original Web site and bookmarked the link and I will be checking in, trust me. TRUST ME.)

I removed the two comments with the blogger’s URL from my blog tonight. I wasn’t going to, but I thought it was confusing for people to go to the blog now that my content gone. Also, I didn’t want to send any traffic or readers to someone who was stealing my stuff.

I want to thank the person who notified me. Unfortunately it is tough to catch these things because of the sheer number of blogs out there. You’re pretty powerless to stop it and unless you regularly Google snippets of your own work, you’d never really know that it had happened. I would have never known if someone had not pointed it out to me, and I appreciate it. Please do not take me deleting the comments to mean that I was trying to censor the readers or anything like that. People are free to write what they want in the comments, but I felt like I had good reason to delete these two.

The only thing bloggers can do in these situations is work together and notify each other when someone is stealing work from a blog. And, if someone refuses to take the writing down, then we’ll just have to use our numbers to influence them, right?

Update 2/5/06 : The site has been shut down by the owner once she was confronted in her comments by at least four other bloggers from whom she plagiarized. (Including RudePundit, Cutting to the Chase, and Carly Milne) This included a post about the “James Frey is a liar” controversy, which is so damn funny and ironic that I giggled when I found that out.

And the thought of limiting people from copying and pasting is probably a bit extreme, but I appreciate the concern. I want other bloggers to be able to quote from here (if it is attributed and linked) and I want to be able to post (attributed) quotes (with links) from other blogs if I feel so inspired. The blogosphere is based on ongoing conversation, often across blogs, and I love that. Also, I just can’t fathom that someone would steal my bad dates, awkward phone calls and wine-related disasters for their blog. I mean, really.

And that is the end of that. Hopefully. Thanks for the love.

I happened to be browsing Amazon tonight and, well, I found like a million things I want. And one of the things happens to be coming out on Valentine’s Day.

And so, because I love myself and need some lovin’ from everyone’s favorite Doc, I ordered myself a nice little V-Day present.

George, will you be my Valentine? (Is he not just ADORABLE!)

What are y’all treating yourself to this year?

I received a very beautiful wedding invitation in the mail from one of my dear girlfriends. She is getting married in April and I am very excited about her wedding, because it is an opportunity for some of our old crew to reunite and drink wine together in dressy clothes while we dance around like morons.

And if I have a chance to dance around like a moron with old college drinking buddies, I am going to take it every time.

I tucked the directions to the wedding in my dayplanner and made a note to ask for a day off from work to hang out with the out-of-towners either before or after the wedding. I wondered about the likelihood of getting a hotel room in New Orleans for the night after the wedding without having to give my first born, since they (obviously) were unable to book a block of rooms.

I was completing the RSVP card when I faced the dreaded, “Number attending” blank.

I had overlooked that the invitation was addressed to me “and Guest,” which is on its face a well-meaning bride’s way of telling her single friends who aren’t in relationships, “I believe you’ll be in a meaningful relationship by the time of our wedding.” But anyone who has ever received an invitation addressed to them “and Guest,” knows that it can feel a bit pitiful, like, “We know that you haven’t been able to snag a man during the past 26 years, and we’re doubtful that you’ll be able to find one in the next several weeks, but, hey, stranger things have happened …”

I contemplated the “Number attending” blank.

The pessimist in me says I should just go alone. The optimist in me thinks that my luck with men has been so bad for so long that something’s gotta give. It’s just the law of averages. I will trip over a guy tomorrow and he will be the one and we will go to the wedding together, says the optimist.

The realist in me, however, knows that the RSVP card needs to be back by the end of February. So, if this is the end of January, that means I have ONE MONTH to secure a date and be able to respond with “2” as the “Number attending.”

But I am handicapped by one unfortunately placed holiday — Valentine’s Day. Hunting for a man between now and V-Day is pretty pointless, as I know no rational, sane man who would want to start something less than three weeks before the Official Holiday of Couples.

So, the earliest the Hunt for the Wedding Date can begin in February 15. The RSVP should be mailed back by Feb. 22 to allow the Post Office three business days to get the card back to my friend.

So, if my math and calendar skills are correct, I have ONE WEEK, Feb. 15 to Feb. 22, to find a suitable date for the wedding of a good friend (which means I will be drunk and babbling and in need of affection). And because the whole thing is out of town, it probably includes a night in a hotel, if one can be located, which only adds a layer of stress to the whole event.

(And yes, I am this neurotic. Perhaps I should be medicated.)

I’m just so tired of going to these things alone. My two good friends who I will be hanging out with will have dates because one is married already and the other has a serious live-in boyfriend. And to make matters worse, there is a possibility that a Drunken Mistake of mine will be in attendance. I had hoped that Drunken Mistake wouldn’t be invited, but given the odd people who are included, I wouldn’t be surprised if he did get an invite. (This makes the whole situation even more touchy, since there is some messiness between my Drunken Mistake and one of the Bridesmaids in addition to the obvious obnoxiousness between me and my Drunken Mistake.) If Drunken Mistake IS there and I don’t have a date, I will be pretty pissed and may have to be kept away from the bar.

So, I suppose I should go on a marathon of bar and party hopping mid-February?

(Note: I am almost ashamed that I wrote more than 2,000 words about this. But the entire time it was happening, I thought, “This is so going on the blog!” And I snapped a shot of the shoes for you. It is to the left.)

All this week, I teased myself. Each morning as I went to work. Each evening as I came hoome from the gym. I stared longingly at a banner outside my favorite little shoe store that proclaimed “Tent Sale This Saturday.”

Each day, I’d tell myself I couldn’t go unless I got up early and went to the gum, or unless I cleaned my entire apartment top to bottom first. I teased myself with guesses of what types of shoes the tent sale would bring and how low-priced they would be, but telling myself that I wouldn’t go. Not me. No.

So Saturday morning I got up to run an errand and turned left out of my apartment complex instead of right, just to see what time the tent madness started, I told myself.

It was about 9:40 and I could see salesgirls bringing boxes and boxes of shoes out. They were stacking hundreds of little cardboard boxes on three tables beneath a red and white tent and they had several boxes of purses to one side.

And then there was the sign: “All Shoes, $9.99.”

I almost wrecked the car. I knew that they store’s nicer, pricier ($150 and up) shoes wouldn’t be under that tent. But I’d seen some very cute shoes in there in the $40 to $70 range, and I was willing to bet some of those shoes might be on sale.

And as I quickly pulled into the parking lot, I noticed the women already swarming around the tent. There had to be 30 or 40 already. There was no way they’d all fit underneath the tent with the shoes and the tables and the purses.

It was in this moment that I began to worry.

I finally found a parking spot behind another store and let my espadrilles carry me to Mecca for the Moment. I glanced around at the other women around the tent. Some of them had been there for quite awhile. I smiled uncomfortably and listened to them talk smack about each other and the shoes. Some of the women were actually in their pajamas!

A man, obviously the owner of the store, supervised the brewing storm, sipping a coffee and looking as if he was unsure of what he had gotten himself into, even though this is apparently a twice-yearly event.

“We will read the rules at five to 10,” he said. “By my watch.”

Rules? It was in this moment that I REALLY began to worry.

See, I like shoes. I like shoes a lot. But I like shopping for them and trying them on and prancing around a carpeted store in them. I like to roll up the cuffs of my jeans as I model them in a mirror. I am deliberative. I like the process of shoe shopping (almost) as much as I actually like the shoes themselves.

So, the prospect of fighting a growing crowd of women for a pair of $9.99 shoes on a Saturday morning did not fit in with my idea of fun. I notoriously avoid confrontation unless I am drunk, and I had left my flask at home.

But it was almost time for the sale to start and I was already there and I have been needing a new pair of kitten heels for work, so I circled the outside of the tent and eyed the shoes, like the other women. Some of the shoes looked pretty ugly, but there were some cute finds there.

And then my cell phone rang. It was my mom.

“S, we totally just thought of you. There is a tent sale at [Name of Shoe Store]. It’s a big tent, I just drove by and I think the shoes are like 10 bucks,” she said.

I giggled uncomfortably. “Mom, I cannot talk right now. I, um, am about to have to fight someone for a pumps in my size. I’m at a shoe sale.”

“You have got to be kidding me, S. I just passed that shoe sale and told your sister that if you would have known about it, you would be out there,” she said.

“Well, I do know about it and I am out here,” I said. “And I am a little scared. I’ve never been to one of these before and the women look like they might get violent.”

“YOU are worried about other women at a shoe sale!” My mom did not believe me.

I turned away from the women and whispered sternly into the phone, “Mom, I just heard a woman say she was going to ‘Go New Orleans’ on someone’s ass when the sale started.”

“What does that mean?” Mom asked, concerned.

“I don’t know, but I don’t think it is good,” I said, timidly. “I may be out of my league, Mom. I am worried. But I should go before the sale starts.”

As I hung up, the crowd was moving in tighter around the tent. The Owner hissed, “Do NOT touch the shoes. If you touch the shoes, you will be disqualified, ladies.”

Disqualified! “I am so totally screwed,” I thought.

Most of the boxes were closed, but some were open and I slid in place by some ballet-styled faux suede shoes with a bow and small kitten heels. I liked the plum color and the round toe and they would be very suitable for work.

As the tension mounted, I focused only on these shoes, which I soon learned was a bad strategy. I have verbally fought with a woman for a bargain before. (A small, yet classic-looking $75 Kenneth Cole Reaction purse on super mega sale for $15, which I SO saw first and had in my possession when she cattily remarked that she had been looking at it first. And yes, I got the purse.) But I was not about to get into a fistfight over cheap shoes. I am a pacifist. And I already have a reputation for having a Thing for Shoes. I would NEVER live it down if I got a black eye over a pair of slingbacks. Ever. (Kind of like how I tripped outside of a bar in college and got a bloody knee and my family still teases me about “falling off of a bar stool.”)

The harried Owner stated the rules to a restless crowd (that would invariably break them all). They were simple:

1. You could buy as much as you could carry.
2. You could try shoes on outside, but if you wanted to walk in them, you had to go inside on the carpet.
3. You could not hoard boxes of shoes in stacks around the tent.
4. Please do not knock over old ladies or trample children.

As he said that last one, I had to laugh about how ridiculous this was. I have been in crowds before. I have rushed a football field with thousands of others after a big win and I have fought through literally hundreds of thousands of people and cop cars and camera crews and Girls Gone Wild and Female Impersonators and Snoop Dogg on Bourbon Street after Endymion (a popular night parade the Saturday before New Orleans Mardi Gras).

And maybe I didn’t worry about being crushed then because I was drunk and a few years younger. But on Saturday morning with women eyeing cheap shoes, I couldn’t help but hope that my inhaler and health insurance card were in my purse, just in case.

“You know how they say that you need to know when to get the hell out of dodge?” The Owner said, nervously. “I think I need to know what my escape route is going to be.” He surveyed the ring of women looking for an opening through which to escape the tent.

“It is 10,” someone in the crowd yelled.

“Not by my watch,” The Owner teased.

He quickly realized that this was NOT a joking matter and relented.

“Ok … and … GO!”

The women lurched forward and the tables and tipped and I am not exaggerating when I say that SHOES and BOXES flew. People were grabbing boxes, tossing shoes to their friends and squealing.

I grabbed what I thought was my size in the plum shoes and tried to snake my way through the tables like many other timid women. I actually wanted to LOOK at shoes, but Shoe Hogs were pulling everything in a size off of the tables and stockpiling the boxes outside of the tent. (In clear violation of the rules, but it was pretty clear that The Owner was not willing to get a black eye over shoes either.)

I was pissed. I turned to the woman next to me, who had also just come to the sale for fun and maybe a cheap pair of sandals. “This is ridiculous,” I griped as I motioned to the Shoe Hogs and their stacks of 15 and 20 boxes. “They have no intention of buying ALL of those shoes.”

She nodded in agreement.

I grabbed a pair of deep plum velvet pumps with pink piping and a peekaboo toe and retreated out of the tent. Neither of my two pairs fit, and I was pissed. I glared at the Shoe Hogs, women who you would never normally see actually shopping INSIDE of the store.

I returned the small shoes to the table and noticed a pair of turquoise and green satin sandals with a bow and a ribbon ankle strap on the ground. Unlisted by Kenneth Cole. I don’t actually remember much about Unlisted shoes, except for the fact that I wore some to prom my senior year of high school. They’re not terribly pricey normally, but they were kind of cute and I’ve always wanted shoes with ribbons you tie around your ankles. They just look so feminine and wonderful and remind me of pointe shoes from ballet class.

Also, shoes should NEVER be on the ground. Ever.

I slid the shoe on one of my feet and it fit. So I smiled and figured I wouldn’t leave the sale without at least one pair of shoes, which made me feel a little better.

A hovered around the Shoe Hogs for a bit, giving them the evil eye and waiting for their castoffs. And I ended up scoring the cute plum shoes with the kitten heel and the bow that I’d originally wanted. They were a bit too big, but nothing a shoe insert couldn’t fix.

So, I gave up on the Tent Sale and went inside to check out the not-bizarrely-low-priced shoes. I almost cried over a pair of brown strappies with coral colored stones on the straps for a mere $175. But I did find a cute pair of brown wedges with a slingback and a bow (it was a theme on Saturday, apparently) that were slightly on sale because they were from fall/winter and not spring. Not $9.99, but still a bargain.

I gathered up my boxes and joined the line of women with my treasures. I smiled with glee that I was getting three pairs of shoes for just less than $65, which is probably less than what I’d spend on one pair sometimes.

The wait was about 15 minutes because some of the Shoe Hogs had literally 10 boxes of shoes and arms full of purses, so I was chatting with other women in line and admiring their shoes.

“I like those green and blue ones,” a woman around my age said.

“Yeah, I don’t actually have anything that matches them right now, but I figure I can come up with something between now and April or May when it is actually appropriate to wear them,” I said.

We laughed and she motioned to a pair of hot pink sandals that she said had the same thought about.

I felt a sense of relaxation because the cutthroat competition was over. Cute, new shoes always make me giddy.

“What about those?” an older women said, motioning to the plum kitten heels I was holding. “Do you have anything to go with those?”

“Um, well, I probably do,” I stammered. “Actually, I’m sure I do. Black pants or whatever. For work.”

“Oh. Because I really wanted those,” she said forcefully. “I really like those a lot and it looks like we wear the same size.”

I couldn’t believe it. All of these women in front of me had between six and 12 boxes of $9.99 shoes and someone was trying to talk ME out of one of my two pairs! The one pair of shoes I’d actually fought for and THIS WOMAN was trying to get me to give them to her moments before I paid for them!

The cutthroat competition clearly was not over. And I may not have been one of the Shoe Hogs and I may not have had the primal instinct to rumble for a pair of shoes, but I am a woman who loves her shoes and NO ONE can mess with that.

So I smiled a bitchy grin and said, “I had my eye on these from the beginning. They will match. And if they don’t, I’ll buy something new. They are mine.”

I gloated a bit, plopped the shoes on the counter and cheerily swung my bags like an excited five year old as I left the store.

I might have not won the war, but I felt like I won a battle.

Update: As shown below, The green and blue shoes make me feel sexy. Please ignore the fact that I need a pedicure BADLY.

If I could give back one piece of time-saving technology, it would be Google.

Sure, I love Internet search engines. I use Google constantly throughout the day, even searching for Web site addresses I already know, because it is easier to just Google something and move on. Google and other search engines are powerful tools. Without them I would never be notified almost immediately when a news story about my organization was published (Google News Alerts), be such an e-mail packrat (Gmail) or find exactly every store on the Internet where I can purchase a black hobo-styled purse or green D’orsay pumps (Froogle).

But with great power comes great temptation and I’m not always able to resist the less practical (and borderline stalkerish) aspects of Google. And my intense curiosity paired with slightly neurotic single girl tendencies makes me a prime candidate for indulgent Googling. A high school classmate here, a co-worker there, and pretty soon I can’t quit and I’ve Googled every damn guy who has ever coughed in my direction, his friends, place of employment and girlfriends.

And so I would give Google’s life-altering features all up, even forsaking convenient accessory shopping if I could never be able to easily access information about former flings, limited only by how quickly I can click my mouse.

I have quit smoking. I have stopped biting my nails. I have traded copious amounts of fat and carbs for low-cal fare.

Now, I must give up obsessing about the past. And so the end-all-be-all of search engines must go.

Goodbye Google. It was fun while it lasted.