I don’t get Valentine’s Day. I remember loving it as a child; spending hours (or five minutes) in the grocery store, trying to pick out the best box of Valentine’s cards; meticulously picking through the box, making sure to give my crush the best one; going over to my grandparents’ house to get a Valentine’s Day card
which declared that I’m their favorite grandchild with a $5 bill inside. I feel as though this opinion of mine was generated when I hit puberty, out of some sort of pretentious, screw-the-man type teenage angst. But it carried with me into adulthood and was solidified when I met The Husband, as he also shares the same opinion.
Preface: This following paragraph is going to come off as super mushy-gushy-newlyweddy. I apologize. Please note that is NOT my intent. We are not a love-dovey couple. We fight, even. Over dumb crap. Like, who has to change the cat litter. (
No pun intended.)
The Husband and I don’t usually do much for Valentine’s Day and we’re both ok with that. He often brings me home flowers for no reason (and has done so the entire six years we’ve been together). He’ll (mostly) sit through an episode of General Hospital without too much complaining. If I’m at the grocery store getting an after dinner treat, I’ll skip the apple pie (which he doesn’t like) and pick up cinnamon rolls (high up there on his favorite treat list). If he wants to finish a game on the PS3, I (usually) don’t mind trolling Pinterest for nail art. We genuinely like each other, and often do things to demonstrate that.
Why do we need one day a year designated to show the ones you love that you, well, love them?
I would get agita if Jason bought me a box of chocolates and roses on Valentine’s Day. For starters, I am NOT a “box of chocolates” girl. I’d much rather have him bring me home a Twix or a couple Kit Kats. Ooo, or chips and dip. And, also – have you seen the price of roses on Valentine’s Day? Outrageous! So, I’d be stressed that he spent so much money on flowers. Flowers that I don’t even like. (You heard me. Ain’t nobody got time for roses. But a nice bouquet of tulips? ::sigh:: If only my favorite florist had her own shop!)
Now, this is not to say that we don’t do a little something for each other on the 14th of February. But that’s the point. Why aren’t people always doing a little something for each other? Why don’t spouses make a daily effort to do something nice for the one you love?
That would take an awfully lot of pressure off of the Big V.D, wouldn’t it?
It’d probably also make Hallmark mad, but that’s their problem.
When I was in middle school, AOL chat rooms occupied most of my and my girlfriend’s time. We thought it was hilarious to talk to boys our age, while pretending that we were 19 or ::gasp:: even 20! We’d then talk to creepy 40-year-old men, doing the same schtick. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think we were in any danger (I mean, I’m sure we probably were, but at the time we thought we were safe and sound.) We were well aware that these men were creepy, and found much joy in making fun of them, duping them into believing we were something we weren’t. These chats usually didn’t last much more than an hour, before we went about returning to real life.
Some people never return to real life. Some people are unappreciated at home and unfulfilled at work. Some get their jollies in knowing that they’ve tricked an innocent person into thinking that they are something that they’re not. Some people are simply desperate to create a different life for themselves. What easier, quicker way to do that than by creating a virtual life?
There have been countless primetime news specials about this very subject. The documentary “Catfish” covers this, too. A handsome, young guy falls in love with a woman he met online. He becomes friends with her family and friends and talks to her on the phone daily. After some research, it’s determined that this woman, “Megan” was entirely made up by a woman named Angela. According to the film’s Wikipedia page, “Angela confesses that the various personae were fragments of her personality enacting fantasies of her life if she had made different choices.”
I’ll spare you the background story on this, because I’m sure you’ve already heard. If not, take a look at this Deadspin article.
I’m not saying that I am certain that Te’o wasn’t in on this hoax. If it comes out that he helped create the whole persona of Lennay Keuka, his girlfriend of a year who passed away from leukemia on the same day that his grandmother died, I’m not going to be shocked. But I also won’t be surprised to learn that Te’o really was the victim of some elaborate online scheme.
Te’o comes from a very religious family, from a very small island in Hawaii. That alone leads me to the conclusion that he could have been a very naïve boy, er, man. He had spent 19 years of his life in a very sheltered community. He then chose to go to Notre Dame, which is also a very sheltered community. Do I find it hard to believe that he started a relationship with a woman he met online? No. Do I find it hard to believe that he dated and fell in love with this woman without ever seeing her in person? Eh, that’s where I’m 50-50.
Supposedly, she stood him up several times. She was stuck in school. She didn’t have the money to fly and meet him. She was in a car accident. She was sick with leukemia. So, why would he keep talking to her? Why would he keep this relationship going?
Because boys are stupid.
Why didn’t he go see her after she was in a car accident? Why didn’t he go visit her while she was having chemo? For starters, he was the quarterback of Notre Dame. I’m pretty sure that his life involved school work and football and maybe, MAYBE, a couple free minutes here and there to eat and go to the bathroom. He claims that whenever he was going to put football on hold and come see her, she begged and demanded that he stay where he was. Don’t let his team down! Play for her! It makes her feel better to see him do so well!
Again, he was a 20-year-old kid. And football was, and is, his livelihood.
He did what she asked.
I think that this story can go either way, and I’m very interested in seeing where it ends up. I sincerely hope, for Te’o’s sake, that he was an unfortunate casualty of someone else’s hoax. I can’t imagine that many future NFL teammates will be quick to welcome him in their locker room after finding out that he killed a fake girlfriend off with leukemia, hours after his grandmother actually died.
There are many ways to make friends, but I don’t think faking cancer is one of them.
The Oscars may be the most important, but the Golden Globes may be my favorite awards show. As Amy Poehler put it, it’s one of the only times that the beautiful faces of movies rub elbows with the rat faced people of television (And, if you’ve ever laid eyes on, say Julie Bowen or Rachel Bilson, you know just how hideous people of television can be.)
Both the pretty and rat faces alike walked the red carpet. Um, holy hotness, Kristin Wiig, right? As an aside – I thought she and Will Ferrell killed it when presenting Best Actress in a Comedy or Musical. The cutesy presenter skits usually come off as awkward (I’m talking about you, Jonah Hill and Megan Fox.), but Wiig and Ferrell nailed it. In case you missed it, they pretended that they saw every movie, by giving a synopsis based solely on the movie’s title.
But back to the red carpet. Because obviously, I know all there is to know about fashion. I thought Sally Field looked both age appropriate and sassy in her navy Alberta Ferretti.
I know there’s not much she can do, but I’m over Anne Hathaway’s pixie cut. Lucy Liu’s blue, flower-patterned Carolina Herrera was incredibly painful to look at.
I thought Eva Longoria’s get up was confusing. Are you flashing leg or cleavage? If it’s cleavage, why do you have such a high neckline? Are you a 1800s Victorian gone bad? I don’t understand.
I’ve read bad things about Kristen Bell’s dress, but I thought she looked super cute, with her little pregnant belly.
Jennifer Garner was especially stunning, in her red Vivienne Westwood. Unlike most of the women last night, Jennifer actually ::gasp:: put her hair up!How come most women didn’t feel the need to do this? I don’t understand. You’re wearing dresses more expensive than my house. Throw a couple bobby pins in your damn hair!
This year, I was particularly looking forward to the Globes, because Tina Fey and Amy Poehler were hosting. Tina and Amy are everything I hope to be when I grow up – hilarious, smart, successful. I want to be part of their best friend club.
And can we just take a moment to talk about Jodi Foster? Her decision to pop some uppers right before accepting the Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award was questionable, at best. What the heck was going on with her? Her speech was nearly incoherent. In one breath, she is saying that she doesn’t need to officially come out of the closet to know who she is, but in the next, did she come out? Is she retiring from acting or does she loves to act? Why is she such good friends with Mel Gibson that it warranted her thanking him? Does Mel Gibson know they are good friends? Because he looked confused. Is her mom dead? Dying? Why were her sons there? For someone who fiercely guards her privacy, she was pretty much an open book during those 6 minutes last night. Like, a choose-your-own-adventure book. Where none of the choices make sense because actually you’re not reading a book at all. Because you’re high on uppers.
One more thing – I think I have a girl crush on Jennifer Lawrence. As she accepted her award for Best Actress, she quipped, “I beat Meryl. That’s what it says,” to the gasps of the pretentious audience below. How DARE she disrespect the great Ms. Streep. Actually, guys, she was quoting Bette Midler in First Wives Club. She also went on to thank her brothers … for being mean to her … but eventually, you know, being really supportive and loving. I thought her speech was charming. And is she dating Bradley Cooper? Because he “makes her better, every day”. Someone confirm this for me. I could get down with some JLaw-BCoops lovin’.
When it comes to getting old, there are plenty of things
you I can complain about. Is that one of my highlights or a gray hair? Do I feel achy because of the gym (haven’t gone in a month) or because the weather is cold? And why is a dollar amount which includes a comma coming out of my bank account every month? (Stupid mortgage.)
One thing about getting older that I’m sort of digging? Knowing who I am and owning it.
I am a woman who asks my husband, every.single.night, if he wants to get a treat after dinner (or sometimes, before.)
I am a woman who invents and acts out (well, describes in vivid detail because there’s no way I’m running up a wall. I’m old) lavish ninja moves on a weekly basis.
I am a woman who can’t walk elegantly in high heels.
I am a 27-year-old woman who loves Taylor Swift.
When it comes to TSwizzle, as The Husband and I like to call her, I believe nearly everyone is firmly planted on one of two sides. You simply love her or you hate her. I haven’t come across many who are like “Oh, Taylor Swift? Eh. She’s ok.” Me? I looooove me some TSwizzle.
Not only do I love her, but I will bitterly defend her to anyone who lifts their nose up at her.
“She only dates guys so she can break up with them and write a song.”
Oh? Is that the only reason a 20-something would date someone a few times? It couldn’t be that they hung out for a couple months and things weren’t working?
“Everyone knows who she is talking about in her songs.” Is that her fault? (Well, with the exception of “Dear John” but homeboy had that one coming to him.) We live in an age where I literally just looked at a picture and read a blurb about how Mila Kunis seems to love wearing sweatpants and why doesn’t she take more pride in her appearance and try harder when going to a coffee shop or the grocery store? Like, I just read that. Should I care what an actress wears to the grocery store? No. Should you? No. Did I still click the link? Yup. Did the writers of the “article” still judge her? Yup. That’s 2013, loveys. There is a mass obsession with celebrities. What they wear. Where they wear it. Who they are dating. Is it Taylor’s fault that paparazzi follow her every move and cover every date? No. So should she be penalized for behaving like a normal 20-something? I don’t believe so.
If Carly Simon wrote “You’re So Vain” today, there would be no bets over who the song was about. We would know.
In “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” she sings a line that I love. (Speaking to the boy she is fighting with) “And you’ll hide away and find your piece of mind with some indie record that’s muuuuch cooler than mine.”
Is liking Taylor Swift lame because she’s so mainstream and not some tiny, indie-rock group? I don’t care. If it’s lame to like Taylor Swift, then call me … um … Captain Lame-o. If loving her is red, then, um, I don’t want to be … not red. (Cut me some slack. I’m recovering from the flu.)
Ah, New Year’s – the fresh beginning everyone has been waiting for, resolving to spend the next 12 months eating healthier/exercising more/focusing on family/focusing on their career/insert-potential-achievement-here. I sort of think resolutions are crap, but I am not in charge of judging someone else’s beliefs (which, consequently, is one of my resolutions).
When you realize there’s something you want to change, I believe that you should start changing it. Rightthatsecond. (I may also be working on my impulsive tendencies.) You don’t need to wait until Monday or the 1st of the month or until the New Year. Be like Nike. Just do it.
For example, a couple months ago, I realized how over-the-top I am with everything. I’ve been this way my whole life, but hosting our first Thanksgiving is when I truly recognized it. Instead of baking a couple basic pies, typical Heather would want to make 5-6 extravagant pies. Who needs cherry-pie-from-a-can when you can have fresh cherry-pear with homemade crust and a brown sugar glaze (I just made that pie up. Just right now. Invented it. It doesn’t sound very delicious, does it?) Along with the usual Thanksgiving sides, I’d want to make homemade sweet potato soufflé and four appetizers and homemade dinner rolls.
For whatever reason – most likely the stress of having both sets of parents over while The Husband and I tried not to mess up the most important meal of the year – I stepped away from myself this year and realized that I didn’t have to do that. I don’t ALWAYS have to go above and beyond. I used that same theory when it came to baking Christmas cookies and bringing dishes to various holiday events. Guess what guys! Turns out that NOT over-committing yourself leads to a pretty stress-free holiday. Who would have known?
I have also actively been working on not being the boss of every situation. Those who know me know how especially hard this is for me. I blame it on my childhood. My “independence” and tendency to oversee and schedule all play between me, my siblings and cousins was rarely discouraged. This continued throughout school, when I was often the person to take charge during group projects (I was also the one writing and directing Babysitter’s Club plays, but that’s a blog entry for a different day.)
My personality quickly molded into one of “If you want something done right, do it yourself.”
But being in control of and awesome at everything all the time is sort of stressful. So I have actively been telling myself NOT to step up and take charge all the time. It is hard. It’s very hard, actually, not to open my mouth and throw in my two cents. It’s hard not to get anxious when someone else DOES step up to the plate, and then doesn’t do things the way I would. But it’s not always my place to take over and I’m trying to remember that.
I’m happy and fortunate to have a whole, new year to work on it. You know, while I’m also working on eating less junk and getting to the gym more often.
I can’t stop thinking about the Colorado movie theater shooting. Over the last few days, it has driven me to tears on several occasions. Tears for the victims. Tears for their families. Tears of gratitude for the life and loves I have. Tears of fear, driven by the reminder that everything you love can be taken away in the blink of an eye.
I can’t bring myself to pass by an article on the attack without reading it or change the news if it comes on my screen. I feel like I owe it to the victims to know all of their names, all of their backstories. To disregard or ignore it because it upsets me feels utterly selfish and disrespectful.
They can’t ignore what happened.
It’s easy to move your way from one day into the next, without ever pausing to consider the decisions you made that led you there. I’m certainly not saying we should live our lives in fear; hermits who never leave our homes. But the minute details of their day led them to that particular showing of the Dark Knight, in that particular theater, at that particular time. Showing up a few minutes earlier or later than other patrons led them to choose the particular seat they chose, which was essentially the arbitrary deciding factor on whether or not they lived or died.
I am especially struck by the story of Jessica Ghawi , who worked under the last name Redfield, an aspiring sports journalist who died that night. Not to belittle anyone else’s tragedy. I’m sure that it is because Jessica and I could be interchangeable. We are close in age, with the same college degrees and, according to her Twitter account, the same stubbornness and sarcasm. She called herself a “grammar snob” which can certainly be used to describe me. Jessica spent the afternoon tweeting a friend, bugging him to accompany her to the movie showing that night. The friend had several reasons why he didn’t want to go, including that they both had to work the next day and would be tired in the morning. But Jessica pressed and joked, eventually convincing him to go with her. She tweeted, “Of course we’re seeing Dark Knight. Redheaded Texan spitfire, people should never argue with me. Maybe I should get in on those NHL talks…” Her last tweet was: MOVIE DOESN’T START FOR 20 MINUTES.
That very simple tweet is devastating to me. Here was a beautiful, feisty, seemingly happy 20-something, painfully unaware of the fate that would end her life in under an hour. How many times have you been sitting in a theater, before the previews started, updating your Facebook status, replying to emails, etc? Just sitting and waiting and watching…
In June, she narrowly escaped a shooting in a Toronto mall. In her last blog post, she wrote about the experience, noting
“I can’t get this odd feeling out of my chest. This empty, almost sickening feeling won’t go away. I noticed this feeling when I was in the Eaton Center in Toronto just seconds before someone opened fire in the food court. An odd feeling which led me to go outside and unknowingly out of harm’s way. It’s hard for me to wrap my mind around how a weird feeling saved me from being in the middle of a deadly shooting.”
“I was shown how fragile life was on Saturday. I saw the terror on bystanders’ faces. I saw the victims of a senseless crime. I saw lives change. I was reminded that we don’t know when or where our time on Earth will end. When or where we will breathe our last breath. For one man, it was in the middle of a busy food court on a Saturday evening.
I say all the time that every moment we have to live our life is a blessing. So often I have found myself taking it for granted. Every hug from a family member. Every laugh we share with friends. Even the times of solitude are all blessings. Every second of every day is a gift. After Saturday evening, I know I truly understand how blessed I am for each second I am given.
I feel like I am overreacting about what I experienced. But I can’t help but be thankful for whatever caused me to make the choices that I made that day. My mind keeps replaying what I saw over in my head. I hope the victims make a full recovery. I wish I could shake this odd feeling from my chest. The feeling that’s reminding me how blessed I am. The same feeling that made me leave the Eaton Center. The feeling that may have potentially saved my life.”
Every second of every day is a gift. I will try to live it as such. Really try.
So should you.
One of my earliest, and fondest, memories happened when I was four. My grandmother had shelves of cookbooks which were easily accessible to someone with my 37 inches in height. While the adults were talking, I’d pull a couple cookbooks, grab a few pencils and go hide in the stairwell. There, I would flip through the pages and “write” stories based on the pictures in the books. In one story, the pasta was actually food created by aliens and served to kids in school (Having not yet entered kindergarten, I had no real baseline as to what happened in school and naturally had to fill in the blank with absurd stories of my own creation.)
My favorite story was the one where Grandma and Grandpa Sweetheart (My grandma always called me “Sweetheart” and for the longest time, for no real reason, I thought that was their last name) just couldn’t make it to their granddaughter’s house in time for Christmas, due to a storm. The granddaughter was very upset. I’ll spare you the majority of the plotline but WILL tell you – spoiler alert – the grandparents showed up after all, with a tray of Christmas cookies, even!
When my grandparents passed away, my Aunt Linda inherited plenty of cookbooks with incoherent four-year-old handwriting and gibberish.
I’ve created stories and have wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. Once I was old enough to realize that a male gender bias ruled our society, I decided I needed to find a woman writer to look up to. Sure, Ann M. Martin (and her team of ghost writers) pumped out Babysitter Club book after Babysitter Club book, but even as a pre-teen, I knew that her (their?) stuff wasn’t that of which aspirations are made.
Now Nora Ephron – she was someone I could look up to. Born in the 1940s, women in her generation weren’t expected to do much of anything. In an industry dominated by
dic men, she broke through, becoming one of the most successful women in Hollywood. Her movies will always be referred to as “rom-coms” or “chick flicks” and she has been accused of pandering to her audience. I never thought that was the case. I thought that she wrote smart, modern women who were always in search of a little old-school romance. She wrote about women, for women. Her words always felt uncontrived, never forced for plotline’s sake. In Ephron’s land, although it may have been delayed, everyone always got their happy ending. And isn’t that the goal in life? To be happy?
While some criticized her characters, expecting more out of these fictional role models, I focused on Ephron as a role model for myself. She was born into a family of writers. With roots in journalism, she married one of the all-time great investigative reporters, Carl Berstein. She took all of that experience and became a novelist, humorist, essayist, blogger, movie director and Oscar-nominated screenplay writer.
In her writing, she never wasted a moment, with dialogue always landing exactly where it was supposed to, with purpose and timed to perfection. Ms. Ephron could take the most mundane, every-day scene and turn it into so much more.
She was so much more.
Ms. Ephron, thank you for being a woman that a little girl, with pencils in her hand and stories in her head, could look up to. If I am ever successful in just one of the careers that you made for yourself, I will consider myself blessed. (Even if I’m the worst kind of woman – high maintenance who thinks I’m low maintenance.)
“Should old acquaintance be forgot. Does that mean we should forget old acquaintances, or does it mean if we do happen to forget them, we should remember them, which is not possible because we already forgot them? ” – Harry
“Maybe you’re just supposed to remember that you forgot them, or something. Anyway, it’s about old friends.” – Sally
You, Ms. Ephron, will never be forgot.
One of my favorite lines in a movie, from When Harry Met Sally:
“I love that you get cold when it’s 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you’re looking at me like I’m nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.”
Although this story is popping up all over the internet, I first saw it over at Kristi’s blog. My first reaction to this cover on Attachment Parenting was a squeamish one. I’m not a mother, so I certainly don’t have a soap box to stand on in order to dictate to others how they should parent. But do I feel ok with looking at a toddler standing on a chair in order to reach his mother’s breasts? Nope.
I believe that parenting is a personal choice, so I’m not bashing her for breastfeeding this long (although I can’t say I don’t find it odd). What I AM bashing is the fact that she dragged her child into this media stunt. Let’s start with how that child is going to feel when he’s a freshman in high school or about to get married (God bless THAT woman).
And now, with their very poor taste in cover art aside, let’s focus on the headline that Time decided to use.
Just in time to ruin your Mother’s Day, Time asks “Are You Mom Enough?” (Cue the insecurities and self-doubt of women everywhere.) The cover fuels the Mommy Wars that have developed in recent years, and it doesn’t look like there’s a side that will win this one. It’s like a parody of an already-bad Jeff Foxworthy joke. If you weaned your baby too early, you’ve probably ruined your child. If you forego breastfeeding and go straight to formula, you’ve probably ruined your child. If you practice attachment parenting and breast feed until their kindergarten teacher tells you to send the kid in with a juice box instead, then you’ve probably ruined your child.
Are you a working mom? Obviously you don’t care about bonding with your child. Are you a stay at home mom? You’re giving them attachment issues.
I think that Time should be ashamed of this cover. I am not a mother. I do not plan on being a mother any time soon. But when that someday comes, I assure you, I will be petrified. I will want all the encouragement I can get. I don’t want to sound all “Let’s burn our bras together!” but shouldn’t we, as women, be supporting each other instead of shouting “My extreme way of parenting is better than yours!”? Shouldn’t we understand that what works for one family might not work for another? Why is there so much propaganda around mothering choices lately? Why can’t a family decide what works for them and then keep it to themselves?
Because when you put something like this out in the public, people ARE going to judge you. I am curious as to how these women were raised, their relationship with their parents and if they are doing the exact opposite of their own parents. So, really, projecting their own issues onto their child.
* I will 100% stand by my opinion that looking at that three-year-old, STANDING ON A CHAIR in order to reach his mother’s breasts, which are in his mouth as he stares straight into the camera is CREEPY. Gross.
Today, the world met Meow, a two-year-old, 39lb 10oz cat who was turned over to the Santa Fe Humane Society by his elderly owner, who could no longer care for him.
To put in perspective, 39 pounds is:
More than 4 average sized bowling bowls.
Approximately four and a half gallons of milk.
As much as a 26 in flat screen tv.
The same as 6 red bricks.
Approximately the same weight as a four-year-old.
A glimpse into my train of thought on the matter:
What was she feeding him? Surely, his diet could not have been cost effective. Although, eating off the dollar menu at McDonalds is cheap and could cause a person to get fat. The vet said a 39lb cat is equivalent to a 600lb man. He looks like a fluffy pillow. I wonder if he likes to be snuggled. Aw, I bet it’s sad when he tries to wobble away. It’s sad that he has to wobble. I wonder what his favorite treats are. I love cupcakes. I wish I had a cupcake. I’m happy I’m not a 600lb man, though. How does a cat lose weight when it’s THAT overweight? Are you supposed to leash them up and take them out for a walk? Why is his name Meow? That’s what we’re going with? Meow? Maybe he has low self-esteem because his owner didn’t love him enough to put any effort into choosing his name. Someone should change his name. He’s only two. Holy crap. How does a cat gain that much weight in two years? I bet his owner was so bummed when she had to turn him over. How come nobody in her life offered to take him in for her? That’s sad. If I die, I hope someone in my family takes our cats and dog.
I’m going to die.
(And, inevitably, this quote from my favorite movie, Love & Sex) “You’re all going to die. Think about that. You’re all going to die and nobody will ever remember you, because they’re all going to be dead too!”
(Around 42 seconds)
Mark S. Luckie recently wrote of a new phenomenon taking over the web and social media. He writes:
Faces in the crowd are no longer just faces. Photo tagging allows people to identify themselves and others in a photo and the technology is starting to catch on as a tool for journalism. Sites like Facebook and Flickr have offered tagging options for some time, which means many readers already know why and how to use tagging.
While tagging a photo of yourself or friend is nothing new, the idea behind mass tagging is. Sites like MLB.com are now posting pictures of crowds and allowing viewers to tag themselves. While the people at the event think this is a cool option, I think it presents great opportunity for journalists.
Looking to interview someone who was witnessed the last at-bat at this year’s World Series, and was present when the San Francisco Giants took America by surprise when they won the coveted title? With thousands of people tagging themselves on the photos posted, it would be very easy for a journalist to connect with a few different interview subjects.
I’m torn on this. Personally, I don’t think I would “mass tag” myself in a photo. Having everyone know I was at an event and where exactly I was at the event is a little too “Big Brother” for me. However, I think the opportunities for a journalist are endless. Although now it seems that people are only mass tagging on “fun” pictures (being out at a ball game, or a concert) how long will it be until pictures are being pulled off newspaper sites, being tagged?