First, you should go read Flutter’s account of her experience with the “rat bastards” (her words, and I agree) at Reunion.com. I can’t possibly tell it like she did. (I’m sorry, Christine, and thanks for not ratting me out.) But, yes, it’s my fault. One indiscriminate click.
You might see something like this in your email. Please, delete it. Now.
I looked for you on Reunion.com, the largest people search service — but you weren’t there.
See who else has been searching for you! Click here.
Don’t click. If you do, they will send an email to everyone on your email list, telling them that you’re looking for them. So save yourself. Save yourself the immeasurable embarrassment of reviewing your email list (228 addresses in mine. 228!), trying to think (think, Jennifer, think) of who will see that message and block your emails. Forever.
Here’s a window into my list of shame:
- Mr H, who will wonder what kind of shenanigans I’m up to (not a one, dear)
- All the subscribers to my blog who are now canceling their subscriptions (Stay, you just got here…there’s bean dip)
- Realtors from whom we never bought a house (We’re the rat bastards in that scenario…)
- Every parent in my children’s 1st and 3rd grade classes (Sorry, but I’ll still send paper plates for the party! Yes, Madison did have the best diorama.
Hiring that designer was totally worth it for you.)
- My mother (crap, to the nth power)
- At least two babysitters who’ve been suspiciously busy lately (How’s Saturday night? Please call.)
- A jewelry designer, from whom I never ordered (Love your work, still!)
- Women on a diet forum to which I haven’t subscribed in a year (Think they realized I quit?)
- My neighbor across the street who wishes I would finish pulling a few weeds (Tomorrow, I’m on it.)
- Oh, and yeah, Tom Perrotta (Love your books, can’t wait for the next movie) Hell.
And those are just the ones I can identify.
So, everyone, I’m sorry. Please feel assured that you will not end up on the news, and that you won’t have to call the non-emergency police number to get me off your front lawn. If you care for me at all, just hit delete.
I can think of at least one person who wishes she had.