The same insane ritual continued with the second, third and fourth round.

Finally, I had enough.

“What are we cheering here?” I asked. “Are we cheering each other on to see who can drink the most the fastest?”

“It’s just something you do,” he replied.

“I really don’t want to do it anymore,” I said as I got a look that would have stopped a train.

Just like we bless someone when they sneeze (with or without reference to God), saying cheers before taking a drink is one of those things that originated thousands of years ago. A quick search in Google reveals that there isn’t a definitive answer to where and why this custom originated, but many theories abound.

Cheers and bless you may be annoying, but they make up only a small portion of little customs and superstitions that make their way into everyday life.

A Romanian friend of mine screamed like a stuck pig when she saw me put a pair of shoes on a table – apparently that means I’ll be turned into goulash or something.

I saw someone throw salt over their shoulder after spilling some and stood by in amazement as a female friend cried for ten minutes because she broke a mirror.

She blamed her breakdown on PMS.

Tonight at dinner, I’ll politely decline the cheers and deal with the scorn of my dinning companion for the rest of the evening.

Or instead of clinking glasses, I’ll break wind.

I wonder what you say when that happens.

Another crazy day designed to remind us to do “something.”

Anything to waste more time.

If you’re like me, if you actually went through all the websites you have passwords for, it would take a little more than a day to change them all.

So why bother?

I tend to have the same password for everything. Six letters and numbers that have been with me forever and have little to no meaning.

Where I really get messed up are those sites that require a minimum of eight characters, including one capital letter, one number and one symbol.

Really?

I have one bank account that is perfectly fine with my standard six characters. I have another account with the same bank that requires a password that I couldn’t remember if I tried. If my simple password is good for one account, why not the other?

I have one of those programs on my laptop that remembers my passwords, but it doesn’t run on my iPad or iPhone, so what good is it?

Looking through that program I see 1,272 websites that passwords are saved for. Some I remember creating passwords for, others like “Latvian Women of the Net” I won’t claim ownership of.

While I do have a remarkable memory, even without Ginkgo Biloba, there are times when I find myself being held captive for forgetting a password. I can only imagine this is going to become more frequent as website operators attempt to beef up security by requiring users to create more complex passwords.

In the mean time, I’ll keep my fingers crossed that my 10 year old, six character password and eight character alternate don’t get discovered by some scallywag who wants to put sinister posts on my Facebook wall.

If that same scallywag wants to renew my subscription to that Latvian Women site… go ahead.

Just use a credit card number you stole from someone else who used a weak password on their bank account.

Only you never feel it.

But it still stings.

I was looking to send an email to one of my friends on Facebook the other day, and I couldn’t bring up her name. I thought I had the right spelling, so I tried again. And again. And again.

I was un-friended. And blocked.

I felt a little weird. I thought we were friends, but I guess not.

In the world of social media, the un-friending is the equivalent of a break-up. The social relationship has ended and it’s time to move on.

But breaking up is hard to do.

I got to thinking what I did to get this virtual dissing. Was it something I said? Was it something I didn’t say? Was it that picture I tagged her in? What was it?

I went through my friend list to see if there were others who dumped me silently and without regret. I found people who I’ve worked with for years – and even gave them their first job out of college – dumped me. I found people I went to school with among the missing on my friend list. Some I friend-requested back to see if they would accept, others blocked me from requesting their friendship.

Whoa!

This is heavy shit. This borders on mental abuse!

I shouldn’t dwell on the fact that people I thought were friends, weren’t, but it does bother me enough to write about it.

Facebook is kind enough to not let you know when you’ve been dumped, so you have to rely on other means to determine who gave you the virtual heave-ho. Just be strong and don’t take it too personal if you use one of these tools.

Like I keep saying to myself… it’s only Facebook!

I also look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t one of my parents who dumped me.

What drives people to overpay for previously frozen baked goods and obscenely priced coffee?

I asked a friend of mine what the big attraction is and he couldn’t explain it – even though he’s one of these men who slither into a pair of skinny jeans, tops himself off with a sweater vest, throws on a pair of penny loafers, coiffs his hair, sprinkles himself with cologne/perfume and wastes the entire day sucking down coffee and free WiFi.

He hinted that his local Starbucks is more like a pick-up joint than a coffee shop, and that it’s usually the place soon-to-be friends with benefits go for their first in-person meeting before the matinee.

So much for the cofee and scones.

Places like Starbucks and Panera Bread attract a unique crowd. Like retirees who hang out at the donut shop, these hipper venues attract people who apparently don’t work, but can afford a $4 cup o’joe.

Many spend the day camped out with their netbook on the table and their cell phone dingie hanging off their ear waiting for their recruiter to call. While others make a quick stop to order a double-chi-extra-latee-super-cocoa-antioxidant-triple-espresso-honey-lemongrass tea.

With four sugars and easy on the ice.

To be honest, I’ve had only one Starbucks experience. I was in dire need of a cold soft drink and the coffee joint was the only place around. I swung the car into the drive-thru, ordered a large Coke and the voice in the speaker shouted back at me, “we don’t serve soda here.” I ended up with some sort of iced tea that reminded me of what it tasted like the time my mother washed my mouth out with soap for saying “shit.”

Despite my lack of “experience,” I am one of these voyers who looks at Starbucks from the outside and tries to piece together what makes them so successful and what attracts the individuals who make up this unique social menagerie.

I’m convinced it’s not the coffee, but rather the feel-good, social, don’t need a membership card to get in atmosphere that’s provided for free.

At least once a week I get an email or a call from someone asking me to meet them at Starbucks.

I decline every time, so please don’t ask anymore as I’d much rather go to McDonalds.

At least I can get a Coke.

Normally my writings have to do with something that pissed me off, made me stop and question common sense or an experience I had to suffer through and/or throughly enjoy.

But today was one of those days when I had a bunch of things whirring around in my head and I didn’t want to write about any of them.

Like how I bought a beautiful Gucci watch, but can’t get anyone at Gucci to call me back to get extra links for it so I can actually wear it. But then I would sound like a total grump because I wrote about how I hate the Apple Store and Comcast just a few days ago. I’ll save the Gucci assault for later.

Or how sick and tired I am of hearing about Joe Paterno’s death, viewing, funeral, memorial, celebration of life and whatever else kind of service they’re going to have for him. I don’t think this much media attention was given to the Pope when he died, but we did have a chimney to stare at in the hopes of seeing a puff of white smoke alerting the networks to go back to regular programming.

Or I could write about how happy I was that after 15 years, Baby finally walked up to me, let out a little bark, walked to the door and alerted me that she had to go outside to pee. Usually she just walks to the nearest pee pad, squats and empties her bladder on her own terms. I texted three people when this happened it was such a big event.

With so many interesting topics just ready to be written about, I abandoned all of them and turned to Facebook and asked those that follow me for suggestions.

Life as a Four-Eyes
I’m wearing glasses now, and not by choice. Turns out the red-eye look that I loved so much wasn’t very healthy according to my eye doctor, Mike. So during my last visit Mike said to me, “you have to stop wearing those f***ing contacts.” After arguing with him for 20 minutes, I conceded like a whiny fifth grader who just got yelled at by his teacher, walked over and picked out a semi-attractive pair of frames.

I now feel the part of a 40 year old, and look it.

All I need is bifocals to make my life complete.

Pinterest
The latest “thing” to join the time wasting, make-me-feel-good-about-myself, social media must have list is Pinterest. Wanting to see what all the excitement was about, I signed up for it the other day and patiently waited to see if I would be one of the lucky ones to get an invite to join.

It’s kind of like waiting to see if you’re going to get invited to the Policeman’s Ball every December.

Will the invite come?

Am I worthy?

Well mine came today, I created my account, looked at it, closed the browser window and went back to doing email.

I don’t get it.

One of my friends posted that he’s going to try to help his merchants make money by using it.

That’s a challenge.

Big companies are still trying to make money off of Twitter and Facebook.

I’m going to chalk this one up there with Google+. When days suddenly become 30 hours instead of 24, I’ll have time to see what all the fuss is about.

Google Privacy
Speaking of Google, someone asked me to write about Google’s new privacy policy. You know what I’m talking about, but in case you don’t, here’s the seven second version. Google is consolidating their privacy policies for all their products into one master policy that many fear goes too far.

If you’re one of those fear mongers who thinks that your car’s GPS unit is used by the IRS to track you down because you still haven’t paid your 1997 taxes, you better get an extra roll of tin-foil to make a sturdier hat if you’re going to continue to use Google.

Personally, I don’t care if Google knows I spend three hours a day searching for pictures of three-legged Vietnamese women or for websites related to Hedonism 2012. If you ain’t got nothing to hide, don’t worry about it I say.

Privacy advocates are raising all kinds of concerns about how Google is going to use all this data they collect. Simply put – they’re going to use it to make even more money off your web activity.  Doh!

I don’t get too upset over things like this, as I don’t expect privacy on the web. In today’s age, the only privacy I expect is when I’m in my house, under the covers with the lights out. and even then I have to double check to make sure I have the web cam turned off. Once you leave that cocoon and you venture out into the street cameras are watching your every move, your cell phone is tracking your current location, your credit card company knows you just spent $4.34 at McDonalds and Walgreens just sold your name to Fiber One because you bought a box of suppositories and scanned your frequent shopper card.

Cables
Doug the Cable Guy suggested this one. Don’t know where to even begin. But I’ll say this – like a good jock strap, sturdy cables are your best bet when you need good support.

Whoops, wrong kind of cables.

Maybe next time Doug.

Right after I bitch and moan about Gucci.

Alka Seltzer Cold with an expiration date of 10/2004.

My birth certificate.

A door key from a cruise I took in 2008.

A pack of screws.

And a lot of gift cards.

Restaurant gift cards I’m given always get redeemed for some reason. Home Depot, not so much. Same thing for the $5 igourmet.com card I had to reach way back in there for.

I’m a business owner’s best friend by not redeeming those. For some, I called the toll-free number on the back to see if there was a balance on them. Interestingly enough, some held their initial value, while others simply faded away adding to the company’s bottom line.

Knowing I’m not the only one who forgets about gift cards, I did a quick Google search to find out just how many of these things go unredeemed.

$30 billion.

Business have cropped up with their model based around that $30 billion. You’ll find websites that will give you cash for unused gift cards, ones that allow you to swap one card for another and ones that allow you to donate your gift cards to non-profits.

I don’t usually give gift cards, because there’s a chance that the card won’t be appropriate. Like that Home Depot card I got. Really? Do I look the handy-man type? But the card for Maggiano’s I got this Christmas? Yeah, that was a good fit.

I’m going to go through the rest of the drawer and see what other fun stuff that’s hiding out while forcing my memory to remember who would get me a $5 gift card.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

“I’ll have a regular and she’ll have a decaf.”

The waiter brought over their drinks, dropped off the sugar caddy and some creamers. In a flash, and without any shame, two Equals went into the coffee and the rest went into her purse.

“You don’t want any creamers do you?” she asked.

“No, but take some, we don’t have any at home,” he replied.

They joined the Equal in her bag.

When I visited my father over the holidays, I couldn’t help notice the big stack of napkins in his kitchen bearing a certain hamburger joint’s trademark “M.” Or the container full of ketchup packets. Or the Ziploc bag full of individual Sweet ‘N Lows.

I looked at his stash, shook my head and said, “Dad, what are you doing with this stuff?”

I don’t know exactly what triggers us to take things like this?

Maybe it’s a fascination with small, portion controlled sized items.

Maybe by walking out with a pocket full of ketchup packets we feel it’s some small win against big business.

Maybe we’re all just hoarders.

I’ll be the first one to admit that when I’m getting ready to check out of a hotel, I’ll take anything that isn’t nailed down and doesn’t have a price tag on it.

I have more shower gel than I’ll ever use, more odd size bars of soap that don’t fit nicely in anything and plenty of shampoo that will never get used. (I really like the sewing kits that some provide, they’re a real “score” when you find one!)

I’m sure businesses who provide such expendable items do so with their cost built into their operating margins and food costs.  But at some point, as prices and pilferage rises, that cup of coffee at McDonald’s is going to be priced right up there alongside Starbucks – and we can only blame ourselves when it happens.

Myself, I would never take the creamers, the Equal, the Sweet ‘N Low or the Splenda.

I’d head right to the Sugar in the Raw.

I don’t really like Burger King, but for some reason I’m still carrying this thing around with me from God knows when.

It’s the little things like this that often become fodder for me to write about.

This find got me thinking about what different businesses do to reward their good customers. The ones that keep coming back for more, even if it’s for a free car wash.

I stopped to think about what the businesses I drop money at do for me. After all, as American’s aren’t we supposed to live by the “what’s in it for me” philosophy?

Every now and then, one of my favorite restaurants will buy me a drink. That’s kind of like the buy nine get number ten free punch card.

Supermarkets make you carry those crazy cards around with you that you need to swipe. I’d rather save space in my wallet or on my keychain than save 10 cents off Pork ‘n Beans.

Airlines love to reward their frequent customers by moving them from a seat that is 17.5” wide to something slightly larger, but comes with free booze. I can’t even remember the last time I sat in coach because of my frequent flyer status. I’m hoping I didn’t just jinx myself.

Credit card companies, who rape consumers willingly each month with something they call “interest,” offer rewards, but dig a little deeper and see how much you paid for that little gift.

Online stores don’t do much for shoppers besides offer email coupons every now and then, but that’s kind of expected. I found a few that offer points with your purcahse that you can redeem for things later on, but they are few and far between.

Taking care of your good customers isn’t hard. Sometimes all it takes is a smile, good service and a friendly hello.

But I’ll never turn down a martini.

I’ve always been told you never ask a woman her age.

What is so taboo about the number of years we’ve been alive?

I had dinner with a friend last night and the inevitable question came up, “How old are you?”

I wasn’t too reluctant to say “40,” but I imagine if I were a woman, I would have answered with a lesser number.

“40?” he gasped! “I look pretty damn good for 40 even if I am supporting that look with some Botox here and there,” I replied.

“How did it feel to turn 40?”

That’s just one on the list of silly questions that are associated with turning a milestone year.

“Well, when I got up that morning, my bones hurt, I suddenly had the gout, a case of shingles wasn’t far behind, I was terrified of incontinence, and it took me longer to pee than normal.”

Women lie about their ages all the time, but men don’t. Unless they’re 84 chasing a 45 year old – then he suddenly drops 20 years in two seconds, pops a Viagra and prays to Aphrodite that he gets a little.

I admit that turning 40 was a bit startling at first, mostly because my so-called friends who will be hitting that number sooner than they think, made it a point to rub it in.

Thanks guys, my memory hasn’t failed me yet and your time is coming soon.

Answer the phone.

Respond to a text message.

Tell someone on instant messenger I’m busy.

Listen to the voice mail message I got while I went to pee.

I’m starting to find it more and more difficult to accomplish anything anymore because these small bits of technology are getting in my way.

If you don’t answer the text message from your friend that just says, “ut?” a half-hour later you’ll get another one asking, “are you mad at me?”

I keep turning call waiting off so instead of callers getting voice mail, they get the old fashioned busy signal which some people never heard before and end up telling me my phone is broken.

I’ve been interrupted five times since I started writing this. One was an instant message asking me if the lunch menu for the deli down the street is online.

I’m not Google. Go away.

I don’t leave voice messages for people because I know how time consuming it is to press this, press that, only to hear, “It’s me, call me back.” If you leave me a voice mail, chances are I won’t listen to it. That’s why phones tell you when you’ve a missed call.

If you’re one who lives off of voice mail, please don’t say “leave a message after the beep” in your greeting.  After 25 years of this, I think all of us know when to start speaking.

If you look at your day, you’ll see just how much time you waste on these silly things. Not to mention posting a picture on Facebook of the sandwich you had at the deli once you found the menu and tweeting about how good it was but you wished your best friend was there to share it with you.

I often wonder how in the world we worked with just a rotary phone and a typewriter at our desks.

More productive comes to mind.